


GopightN? 


COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



















EDITH AND JOHN 

A Story of Pittsburgh 


(By 

FRANKLIN S. FARQUHAR 

n 



Copyright 1912 
by 

Franklin S. Farquhar 


Published May, 1912 
Type set by Rush G. Faler & Co., 
Linotypers 

Printed by 

Commercial Bindery & Printing Co., 
Tacoma, Wash. 



\ 


EDITH AND JOHN 

Jl Story of Pittsburgh 


CHAPTER I. 

THE WRECKED UMBRELLA. 

Fog and smoke and grime hung over the city of Pitts- 
burgh: a thickening blanket, soggy in its cumbrous pall. 
The rain came down like gimlets ; the air was savage, 
miserably embracing; the streets were sodden, muddy, filthy, 
with dirty streams babbling along the gutters; the lights 
gleamed ghastly, ghostly, hideously, in radiating through the 
gloom; water dripped from eave, awning, wire, sign, lamp- 
post — from everything, spattering, trickling, everlastingly 
dripping, till the whole world seemed to be in an advanced 
stage of the diabetes. It was a gray, grim, medieval night — 
a cold, raw, nerve-racking night in November. 

The gleaming forges, the ponderous hammers, the mon- 
strous rolls of the mills boomed in the distance, sullenly, 
ceaselessly, like unto the grumblings of a maddened Tubal 
Cain irritated beyond endurance. Mill and factory and boat 
and shop whistles tooted and screeched and howled demon- 
iacally, with little agreement as to rhythm. Trains rumbled, 
cars rattled, and all manner of conveyances bumped along, 
over crossings and grades and Y’s, through tunnels, under 
sheds, through yards, beneath buildings, over streets, across 
bridges; some rapidly, some slowly, some cautiously, some 
recklessly — all going, coming, hither and yon, with a re- 
morseless energy, and for an inexorable purpose. A medley 
of bells smote the air with a harshness, a sweetness, a mad- 
ness, that was startling enough to drive the nervous into a 
wild panic. The rumble of cart, the thud of horse, the crack 


2 


EDITH AND JOHN 


of whip, the tread of feet, the sound of voice, was a con- 
fused mass of noises added to the greater roaring of the tur- 
bulent city of iron and steel. 

Tired, wan women, coarsely dressed ; proud, haughty 
women, fashionably attired; strips of boys and girls, shiver- 
ing and chattering, bedraggled and humped up ; horny-handed 
men, roughly clothed; kid-gloved men, faultlessly groomed: 
some with bundles, baskets, dinner-buckets, or nothing — 
all hurrying through the elemental dreariness, bending their 
way from office, from store, from shop, from mill, from fac- 
tory to home, to hotel, to palace, to mansion, to hovel, to 
downy beds, to straw pallets, to bunk, to bench, or doorstep; 
or to place of nightly service, or to pleasure; to rest and 
refresh themselves, and await the coming of another day of 
toil, or leisure. 

John Winthrope was a strapping young man but a few 
months from the country — aged twenty-two. He had quit 
his pen and ink and account sheets at his high desk in the 
office of Jarney & Lowman as the clock in the court house 
tower pealed out six deliberately solemn strokes. He put 
on his coat and hat, took up a bundle of reading matter 
selected for its quality from that which daily cumbered the 
desks and waste-baskets, procured an umbrella from the 
many that had been left in a rack in one corner, and went 
out the door, down the elevator, and into the street. As rain 
was falling, he turned up his pantaloons, turned up his 
coat collar, raised the umbrella, and joined the throng of 
hurrying pedestrians, homeward bound. 

Home! John had no home in the city. He had left his 
home behind — the modest, cheaply builded, scantily fur- 
nished and illy appointed home of his parents in the moun- 
tains — to come to the city to make his fortune. 

His home now was a “room” — merely a room among a 
multiplicity of similar rooms, in between the four angles of 
plastered walls. His remuneration as the lowest bookkeeper 
in the line of such functionaries was insufficient to purchase 
more than the most meager accommodations in a cheap board- 
ing house up Diamond Alley way. 

This room in question was in an ancient brick and timber 
building, that, in its earlier days, was an architectural orna- 
ment in its stateliness compared to other business blocks; 


EDITH AND JOHN 


3 


but by reason of the rapid striding of modern prosperity, it 
was long ago left in the vast shades that great fortunes had 
reared into iron and concrete, standing by. 

There were only two sides open to the light and air in this 
low and aged building — one in front and one on top. In 
between were three tiers of small dark rooms, one tier above 
the other, resembling very much the little cubes of a concen- 
trated egg case. Two small paned windows looked drearily 
into them from the street, on each floor, with a smaller time- 
stained window in each resounding hallway. 

The inner rooms were lighted by abbreviated wells dug 
in from a skylight on the side adjoining the blank walls 
of a dizzy skyscraper. And cloudy and shadowy and dim 
and cheerless, indeed, was the light let in on the brightest 
of days, while on dull days it was nothing more than the 
semblance of a waning twilight; so that, if used in day time 
at all, a light were needed to make out and clearly discern 
any object within. 

In one of these dark and inodorous rooms, John Win- 
thrope had his temporary abiding place. There were in it 
a cheap iron bed, with musty smelling tick, sheet and 
coverlets ; a small oak-grained pine washstand, with such 
a wavy little mirror hanging over it, that one could not tell, 
in looking at himself in it, whether he were a Chinaman, 
a Greaser, or a crooked-faced Irishman toiling in the streets; 
a small bowl, for washing, and a correspondingly small 
pitcher, with water in it, sat upon the shaky stand ; a 
cheap chair, a weak imitation of quartered oak, with many 
marks of usage all over it, stood by a little table, also with 
many marks of usage on it; a flowered carpet, faded, worn 
and fretted by the sure hand of wearing time, covered the 
floor, with here and there ragged spots of bareness to enhance 
the room’s impoverishment. 

Leaving the office of Jarney & Lowman on that very 
disagreeable evening, as mentioned in the beginning of this 
chapter, John pushed down the foggy thoroughfares, with 
a rain: which seemed to be coming from a reservoir in the 
infinite space above : pouring down. The streets were 
crowded with people, going in various directions, and jos- 
tling each other with little regard as to manners. Every- 
body had, apparently, but one motive, and that was to get 
somewhere out of the terrors of the elements. Nobody 


4 


EDITH AND JOHN 


went with any precision as to plan of action, aiming only 
to reach a near or remote destination. 

John pressed along the best he could, with what care 
that the rain, the umbrellas and the crowd permitted. He 
drew his shoulders downward, and bent forward, leaning 
against the driving rain, with his umbrella in front of him. 
He hugged the buildings closely, stepped rapidly, dodged 
from right to left of the other pedestrians, who were at- 
tempting the same artful measures as himself, to keep out 
of the rain, if that were possible. 

So absorbed was he in his own behalf, that he did not 
observe a young lady approaching, in line with him, with 
the same absorbing carefulness as to herself. She had 
but a moment before stepped from a store, not perceiving 
that it was raining hard till she was plodding along through 
it. She was also bending forward slightly, picking her way 
with dainty but quickly executed steps to get w^here every- 
body else was aiming for — home. Like John, she was unob- 
serving as to the actions of the fleeing people about her; and 
it is difficult to tell just how she expected to keep her feet 
dry, considering how the water fell, and how it splashed 
about. 

Howsoever, the lady, all of a sudden, came to a stop ; 
two ribs of her umbrella snapped with a loud click, one side 
flapping down over her shoulders; her hat flew off as if it 
had been kicked by an athlete, and rolled across the swim- 
ming pavement into the gutter. She uttered a little cry of 
distress, and was in the act of turning around, and repairing 
to the store whence she came, when she beheld a young 
man performing an ungraceful act in attempting the recov- 
ery of her hat. He was fleeing after it, with upspread um- 
brella over him, and running and stopping and reaching for 
the piece of headgear that seemed determined to evade his 
efforts to secure it. Seeing him thus, in his ludicrous move- 
ments, she half smiled, and then decided to await further 
developments. 

Securing the hat, finally, after it had started to float 
away on the tide of the gutter, John (for that is whom the 
young man was) returned with it to her, he himself showing 
some moiling, like the hat, as a result of his gallant endeavors. 
When he approached her, with it in his hand, she exhibited 
such an air of respectability and unfeigned independence that 
John was fairly startled. 


EDITH AND JOHN 


5 


“Beg your pardon, lady,” he said, handing her the hat, 
bowing as he did so ; “it was an unavoidable accident — or 
rather the result of my heedlessness. I beg your pardon.” 

The lady stood a short moment confused, hesitating as to 
whether she should deign to answer a stranger in the street, 
any more than to say “think you,” and acknowledge, lady 
like, that she was partly in the blame, and ask his pardon 
also; or accept his blunder in good nature, as he seemed to 
take it, and go her way. But John’s voice was so mild, and 
his manner so gentlemanly, that she felt as soon as he had 
spoken that she need have no fear of him. 

“Oh, sir,” she said, pleasantly, with a laugh; “as much 
my fault as yours. Thank you.” 

“May I hold your umbrella while you adjust your hat?” 
he asked, seeing her dilapidated rain shade, with water 
streaming oif of it on her shoulders, falling about her head. 

“If you wish, you may,” she replied, shyly. “I fear it 
is about done for.” 

“You may have mine,” he returned. “May I take yours?” 

“You may hold it,” she answered, as she began to lower 
it, having her hat now also in her hand. “My, what a pre- 
dicament I am in!” 

“Pardon me,” he said; “but you will be left in the rain, 
if I take yours and you do not accept mine.” 

“Why, yes, indeed, I forgot it was raining,” she re- 
sponded, with a laugh that indicated her confusion. 

“Give it me,” he said, as her umbrella shut up tightly. 
“Will you accept the protection of mine? The rain is falling 
hard,” he continued, as he took hers; and then reached as 
far as possible, without going closer, holding his over her, 
and standing himself in the rain. 

“Oh, my, this hat is so soiled and nasty from the street,” 
she said, as she held it before her in the light of a fog 
enshrouded street lamp. 

“If you will give it me a moment, I will make an effort 
to remove some of the grime,” he said, in such a deferential 
tone that she was moved to reply: 

“Indeed, sir, I find now I need your assistance, or perhaps 
I would be doing a wrong in standing here in the rain with 
you. I find most men are gentlemen, though, when a lady 
is in trouble.” 

“Thank you,” he returned. “May I take the hat for a 
moment?” 


6 


EDITH AND JOHN 


She hesitated a second time about accepting his proffered 
aid, but finally, becoming more convinced of the futility of 
aiding herself alone, said: “You may.’' 

He then took the hat to clean, and she took the umbrella 
to hold, and they both stood together, closely, under his 
rain protector. While he cleaned the hat of its smutage, she 
watched him with some trepidation as to the propriety of 
the act. 

When she saw him draw forth his pocket handkerchief 
and begin, with delicate carefulness, to mop the slimy accre- 
tions from the rich material, she breathed more easily, and 
stood as silent noting the performance as the street lamp 
that gave forth such an haloic light. They were both facing 
the light, he holding the hat in his left hand, whirling it 
round and round as he diligently soaked up, with his hand- 
kerchief, the water from it. His head was bent forward, 
with his eyes cast directly upon the object of his attention. 
She glanced up into his face from time to time, wondering 
at the strange situation she was in, and seeing how good a 
face he had. She was very careful that he did not catch 
her throwing furtive glances at him, fearful that he might 
think her very bold. John paid no heed to her for the time, 
so bent was he in attempting to make courteous amends for 
his awkwardness. But when he had so soiled his handker- 
chief that it would not absorb any more of the hat’s defile- 
ment, he raised his eyes to her and said: 

“There!” 

“Thank you,” she returned, taking the hat, and handing 
him his umbrella. “Will you be so kind as to hold the um- 
brella while I put on my hat?” 

“With your permission,” he replied, with condign sim- 
plicity. “I am delighted to be of service to you for the 
grievous work I have done this night,” and he took the 
umbrella again, and held it over her. 

After a few minutes of prodding about her head with 
two long silver pins, with something sparkling like diamonds 
on one end of each, she said, as she lowered her hands: 

“Now, my umbrella, if you please?” 

“You may have mine,” he answered. “Yours is so deso- 
late looking that you might as well go on your way without 
one as to attempt to use it again.” 

“You are kind, indeed,” she replied, with reserve, as she 


EDITH AND JOHN 


7 


was making an effort to hoist her wrecked umbrella, which 
he had turned over to her, but still standing under his. 

She was now facing the lamp that was feebly radiating 
down upon them, and he could see, plainly enough, that she 
was pretty. He had divined as much, however, basing his 
divination upon her beautifully modulated and sweet voice, 
which he thought could accompany no other than blue eyes, 
rosy cheeks and cupid lips. 

‘‘Will you accept mine?” he asked again, seeing she was 
having trouble in raising her own to a due and rigid up- 
rightness. 

‘‘To whom shall I return it, should I accept it?” she 
asked. 

“Oh, never mind its return,” he replied. 

“Then I shall not accept it,” she insisted. 

“If you insist on returning it, then to the office of Jarney 
& Lowman,” he answered. 

“Why, what have you to do with that firm?” she asked, 
with surprise. 

“I am one of the bookkeepers in the office of that firm,” 
he answered, hesitatingly, for her tone of surprise was such 
that he could not guess its meaning. 

“Ha, ha, ha!” she laughed. “It seems so ridiculous in me 
standing here this soggy night, feeling so fearful all the while 
that I might have fallen into the hands of a ruffian! Ha, ha, 
ha! I must tell papa as soon as I get home. Such a strange 
coincidence one never heard of before!” 

The pleasant demeanor of the young lady, so suddenly 
taken on, set John to staring at her, now in a great quan- 
dary, now in mingled confusion and hesitancy as to what to 
say further. 

“To whom have I the honor of being so unceremoniously 
introduced on such an aqueous night?” he asked. 

“Why, I am Edith Jarney, daughter of Hiram Jarney,” 
she replied, with so much more confidence in herself that she 
felt she would not now hesitate to be on friendly terms with 
this humble worker in her father’s office. “And your name?” 
she was emboldened to ask. 

“John Winthrope,” he blurted out, a little fiustrated 
over the turn the accidental meeting had taken. 

“Mr. Winthrope,” she said, extending her hand; “I am 
very glad to know you, and to know that you are an employe 


8 


EDITH AND JOHN 


of my father.” As he took her gloved hand, she continued, 
“yes, with your permission, I will accept your umbrella; but 
it seems so ungracious for me to do so. What will you do 
without one, and the rain coming down so?” 

“I have not far to go,” he answered. 

He pressed her hand lightly, while she held his firmly and 
sincerely in her effort to impress upon him how very thankful 
she was for his kindness. 

“It gives me pleasure, indeed. Miss Jarney,” he returned, 
looking steadily at her, “to assist you. I hope I may have 
the further pleasure of seeing you again, some day ; but I can 
hardly expect that — ” 

“Why not?” she interrupted. 

“ — unless it should be by chance,” he finished, releasing 
her hand. 

“Mr. Winthrope, really, I have enjoyed our accidental 
tete-a-tete,” she pursued. “When we first ran together, I 
was somewhat angered, as I had a right to be, at your 
awkwardness; but when I saw you running for my hat, and 
when I heard you speak, and when you offered to aid me in 
my distress, all fear left me. I felt that a gentleman was at 
hand to mollify the grievous circumstance. Now, you know 
what I think of you.” 

“Thank you,” he replied, bowing, with considerable con- 
descension, for her praiseworthy remarks. 

“I would like to prolong our now quite interesting little 
episode, were it possible,” she said, with more earnestness in 
her feelings than he could believe; “but this horrid night is 
already sending the shivers through me, and I am beginning 
to realize that, should we stand here longer, the rain will have 
soaked us through and through.” 

John gasped at this reassuring confidence and interest in 
himself. He would have asked her, as a matter of continuing 
his courtesy, to accompany her to her home, or to some con- 
venient point for her to take a taxicab ; but recognizing his 
station in life was not on a plain with hers, he could not 
conscientiously attempt to ingratiate himself into her favor, 
let alone asking the pleasure of her company homeward. He 
felt it would be exceedingly bold and entirely out of place 
for him, being as he was poor, to make such a dubious re- 
quest of her. But still she remained continuing the conversa- 
tion. And the rain still came pouring down. 


EDITH AND JOHN 


y 


“I assure you. Miss Jarney,” he did say at last, “I have, 
since I came to know you, never enjoyed anything so monu- 
mentally humorous as this affair; and I would have been 
greatly disappointed on it, and weightily embarrassed over it, 
had you not have taken my umbrella, even though I had not 
learned your name, nor ever expected to see you again.” 

‘ ‘ That is very clever in you, ’ ’ she replied, with the 
sweetest little chuckle, being amused at the simplicity of his 
manner and loftiness of his speech. “The eloquence of your 
deportment cannot be improved on.” 

“Thank you. Miss Jarney, for your kind opinion,” he 
answered. 

Still Edith Jarney stood, on this cold, gloomy, miserable 
November evening, talking to this young man from the moun- 
tains, who was without money, or fame, or glory, or name, 
except that which his good parents had bestowed upon him — 
this young man alone in a big city, with a multitude of others 
in the struggle for existence, and she so rich. 

And still she talked on with this unassuming country 
youth, emboldened to the act by the strange hand of chance 
that should bring her to it, and by the novelty of the situa- 
tion, and by some other unfathomable mystery that caused 
her to see in him something more than usual, continuing to 
intimate the while that she was loath to forego further in- 
dulgence in their very entertaining meeting; and she so rich, 
and he so poor. But as all happy events in one’s life must 
have an ending, she at length said, while the rain still kept 
pouring down: 

“Mr. Winthrope, I must express my sincere regret that the 
time and place are inappropriate for a continuance of our 
very, very pleasant talk on this highly felicitous event, as it 
has turned out to be.” 

Again she extended her hand, and still the rain came 
beating down as before. He took it, and pressed it more 
firmly, and she permitted him to hold it as he said: 

“The pleasure is not all yours, Miss Jarney, I assure you. 
Were I — were I equal to the occasion, which I can never 
hope to be, I might ask the pleasure of accompanying you — 
part way at least — through this soaking night to your home, 
or to your nearest friends. But I shall not ask it of you.” 

“Good bye,” she replied, with some disappointment, it 
appeared to him, as he released her hand. 


10 


EDITH AND JOHN 


‘‘Good bye,” he returned; and they parted. 

She turned, and disappeared, like a spectre, into the 
depths of the grayish shroud of the melancholy night. 

He turned a corner, lost his way in the hurrying crowd, 
and drew up eventually at a restaurant. After refreshing 
himself, he returned to the street again, and plodded on, with 
the broken umbrella over him, through the dampage to his 
cold and dimly lighted chamber — there to sleep, and dream, 
perhaps, of a fair young face, miles and miles above his 
station in life. 

And the rain beat down above him with the same homely 
sound, it seemed, as it did in the past, upon the roof above 
his chamber in his mountain home. 


CHAPTER II. 

AT THE MANSION ON THE HILL. 

In Highland avenue, far removed from the crowded thor- 
oughfares, the congested tenements, the cheap homes of the 
middle class, the rush and roar of industry — out where the 
wind and sun (when they combine together to have a sky 
cleaning and an air purification) first lay hold with brush 
and broom and water to scour away the smokage of the 
manufactories of wealth — stands a mansion. 

It is a dull gray mansion on a hill, with an outlook to 
the four winds — over every hill and valley, park, suburb, 
town and community — embracing everything that a prospect 
could possibly be endowed with. Standing alone in a small 
private park, studded with oaks, beech and maple trees, and 
brightened by a sward faultlessly maintained, with gently 
sloping hillsides, rockeries, aquariums and flower beds, and 
winding paths and roads and byways, it impresses one not 
much unlike that of same landed member of nobility when 
men were masters of men even with less harshness than now. 

It does not resemble an ancient castle. It does not re- 
semble a manor house of England. It resembles nothing at 
all that ever was in the way of abode of men. It resembles 
more the newer ideas of builders put into stone and mortar 
and glass — a conglomeration of the old styles blended 


EDITH AND JOHN 


11 


into one more modern, more pleasing to the eye, more har- 
monious with the colors of the air, the trees, the fields and 
all things around — representing the craft and graft and 
greed of men of this age. 

Without, on this November day, it seemed to be for- 
saken, cold, damp, dull, forbidding, sombre in every delin- 
eation of its outline, rearing through the haze of smoke and 
fog and rain like a stranded Adamaster in a sea of penury, 
misery and woe, with the lesser lights of affluence beaming 
dimly in its neighborhood. But within, there were the warmth 
of the tropics, the effulgence of the Riviera, the glitter of 
the Orient, the polish of the court of France in the heyday 
of its kings, the laughter of youth, the smile of the aged, 
the cheer of the domestic, and over all the atmosphere of 
those brought into the world to conquer among men in the 
science of business. 

This is the home of Hiram Jarney of the firm of Jarney 
& Lowman, makers of iron and steel. Here lived Miss 
Edith Jarney, the only child. She was twenty-two, tall, 
willowy, graceful. She was raised as became a daughter 
of a man of wealth; but she was not spoiled. She was not 
a sham, as many such young ladies are. She was not af- 
fected. She was level-headed, self-possessed, modest, kind, 
beautifully unselfish, lovable, very handsome, very noble. 

Mrs. Jarney was a buxom woman still, although gray 
was sprinkled well through her hair. She must have been 
handsome vrhen young, for yet her cheeks were rosy, with 
the refining marks of motherhood toning them down to 
the fading point. She was bouncing in her manner, lofty 
in her speech, pleasant in her smile, and a little haughty 
in her bearing, but always cheerful. She had come up from 
adversity with her husband, climbing the ladder of success 
side by side with him, adjusting herself to each rung as 
the dangers of the height increased, till at last she sat, 
with him, on the top, and scornfully, although not will- 
fully, cast disparaging glances on those below seeking her 
altitudinous environments. 

The husband and father, Hiram Jarney, was a tall, clean- 
cut business man, proud, vain, nice, neat, with a monumental 
ambition to accomplish in every purpose he set out to do. 
And he had accomplished many. 

When Edith Jarney took the taxicab for her home, after 


12 


EDITH AND JOHN 


parting with John Winthrope in the rain, she was in great 
good humor all the way, and for some hours after arriving 
at her domicile. Thinking little of the wet condition of 
her clothing, or her hat, or her shoes, or anything else, she 
leaned back on the soft, dry cushions of the cab and laughed 
and laughed, time after time, over the singular episode with 
that young man. In truth, it raised her sense of risibility 
to such a degree so often that she had to hold her sides for 
the pain of laughing. 

Nothing in all her short and interesting life appealed 
to her as so ridiculous, nothing so amusing, nothing so 
ludicrous, nothing so out of the ordinary, nothing so new, 
nothing so out of the common run of happenings in her 
daily ins and outs, as her encounter with this unspoiled 
youth of the mountains. And the more she thought of it, 
the more she laughed over her own discomposure, over 
the cheerful attitude she had assumed toward him, over 
her apparent boldness, over her clever mastery of a situ- 
ation made possible only by the cheerless night. 

Indeed, so forcibly was she impressed with the affair 
that she began already, while riding in the cab, to write 
the incident down in the tablet of her memory as one of 
the most extraordinary events of her life. And more — the 
longer she thought of it, the more impressed she was with 
John Winthrope. His politeness, his bearing, his voice, his 
face, his size, appealed to her young idea of what con- 
stituted proper proportions in a good young man. She 
gave no thought of him being a poor employe of her father; 
she gave no thought whether he was possessed with worldly 
riches; she gave no thought as to whether he had blooded 
ancestry; or who, or what he was, any more than that he 
appeared to be above the stuff of the average man with 
whom she had previously come in contact. 

“Ah, he must be a good young man,” she said, almost 
aloud, during one of her oft recurring spells of happiness. 
“He cannot be so bad,” she thought, “when he was so 
good to me. But still — ” 

The taxicab was at her home. The door was opened 
by the chauffeur, who had raised her umbrella, and was 
standing waiting for her at the door. It took a word from 
him to rouse her from her meditation. 

“Oh, are we home?” she said, as she bounded out. She 


EDITH AND JOHN 


13 


grasped the umbrella, and ran up the pathway to the big 
piazza of the mansion. 

She was so gleeful that she bolted toward the door, 
which was not opened soon enough to suit her impetuous 
haste to get within; and when it was opened, she rushed 
in, forgetting to lower the umbrella. This action caused 
the footman to look aghast at the dripping water and her 
much bedraggled skirts. And not till she had gone to the 
center of the big reception room, and had left a trail of 
water behind on the polished floors and turkish rugs, on 
curtains, chairs and settees, much to their ruination, did she 
notice her absentmindedness. 

‘ ‘ Why, Edith ! ’ ’ exclaimed her mother, with uplifted hands. 

‘‘Oh, mamma! mammal” exclaimed Edith, out of breath, 
almost. 

‘‘What is the matter, Edith?” asked her mother, excit- 
edly, as she came rushing toward her from her cozy corner, 
where she had been embowered this dreary night, among 
richly-scented cushions. “One would think it raining in 
here, Edith, from the way your umbrella is shedding water. 
Put it down, and explain yourself, Edith!” 

“My, oh, my,” laughed Edith, for the flrst time realizing 
that she was still carrying the umbrella. 

“What is it, Edith? What has happened?” continued 
her mother. “My! Your clothing are so wet! What has 
happened to that hat?” 

“Enough for one night, mamma — enough,” returned 
Edith, now lowering the umbrella, and looking it over 
searchingly — at the handle, at the material, at the ferrule, 
at the tassel, at the “J. W.” on the silver plated strip 
that formed a narrow ring around the briar root handle. 
Then, without answering her mother deflnitely, she went into 
the great hall and deposited “J. W.’s” rain shade into a 
glistening receptacle of pottery with a dragon’s head look- 
ing viciously at her from one side. 

“Mamma! Mamma!” she exclaimed, joyfully, with soiled 
hat, wet coat and soaked shoes still on. 

“What is it, Edith? Do tell me! What has happened?” 
questioned her mother for the third time, as she stood with 
her hands clasped before her in expectation of hearing 
something terrible, and wringing them sometimes to give 
vent to her wrought up feelings. 


14 


EDITH AND JOHN 


‘‘I had a most extraordinary experience this evening, 
mamma, answered Edith, slowly pulling off her wet gloves 
that seemed to want to adhere to the flesh. Edith was look- 
ing down at her hands, with a very pleasant smile lighting 
up her face, which she turned into gyratory expressions 
now and then as she pulled and jerked at the clinging glove 
fingers. 

“Tell me, Edith — tell me quickly, before something 
happens to me,” said her mother, now impatient at Edith ^s 
slowness. 

“It was such an extraordinary affair, mamma,” answered 
Edith, finally getting off her gloves, and then reaching up 
to remove her hat, “that I am still all excited about it, 
mamma — and the old hat is ruined — call the maid to 
assist me into dry clothing — look at that hat, mamma; it 
fell into the gutter,” and she turned it round and round, 
just as John had done, looking at it admiringly — not that 
she admired it for its beauty in its present condition, oh, no; 
but for something else; and she touched it in several spots 
with her little bare hands, which she could not forbore 
doing on any other occasion. 

“Edith! Why are you so procrastinating? I cannot 
tolerate your delay longer! Answer me! What has hap- 
pened?” demanded the little bouncing mother, with some 
pretention toward exasperation. 

“Oh, mamma,” answered Edith, with charming affection, 
“I will, I will, if you will only give me time. It was 
such an extraordinary event that I want plenty of breath 
to proceed with the story. Nothing serious has happened, 
mamma — but it was unusual.” 

“Go to your room, Edith, and then return to me with 
changed clothing, and tell me what it is that excites you 
so,” said her mother, now reconciled and satisfied that 
her daughter had not met with any serious mishap. 

Edith, thereupon, kissed her mother, fondly patted her 
cheek, and then, when her maid came, tripped lightly to her 
dressing room. 

“Sarah, I never before felt like doing things for myself 
as I do now,” said Edith to her maid, as she sat down to 
have her shoes removed. 

“And would you?” meekly asked the maid, looking up 
at her mistress. 


EDITH AND JOHN 


15 


“Indeed, I would,” returned Edith. “I would com- 
mence to learn at once were it not for giving offense to 
my parents. ’ ’ 

“And leave me without my lady to wait on and love?” 
asked the maid, apprehensive of her position. “I could not 
bear it, dear lady. Why, Miss Edith, I have been with 
you since you were a teeny baby, and I love you so that I 
imagine sometimes you are my own dear child.” 

“Never mind, Sarah; don’t be alarmed,” returned Edith. 
“I will keep you if I do learn to wait on myself. But I 
was thinking, Sarah, that you cannot always tell what 
might happen. Every one of we mortals is a possible sub- 
ject for the poorhouse; and if it should come to anything 
like that I should want to know how to hear ray own 
burdens. ’ ’ 

“Don’t tell me, Edith,” cried Sarah, now alarmed, “that 
it has come to that!” 

“Oh, no, indeed, Sarah,” replied Edith, consolingly. “At 
least not that I know of anything of the kind as being 
likely to happen. But that was not it, Sarah — not it — why, 
what am I saying? — it is something else.” 

Sarah looked up quickly at Edith. Edith was half seri- 
ous, half mirthful in the little laugh that followed her words. 
And she toyed with Sarah’s graying hairs. 

“Edith, are you keeping any secrets from me?” asked 
the suspicious Sarah. 

“Now, Sarah, do not be cross with me, will you, if I 
tell you?” asked Edith, with some hesitancy about reveal- 
ing what had so recently happened to give her such a won- 
derful new vision of life. 

“Never — never, Edith — unless you say,” promised 
Sarah. 

“I met the finest young man this evening, Sarah,” began 
Edith, slowly, blushingly, still toying with Sarah’s hair, 
Sarah still being on her knees before her mistress. “There 
— I have let it out! Now, don’t you tell, Sarah. No, of 
course, you will not?” 

“Since you have forbidden any of the young bloods of 
your own set coming to see you, I am anxious to know just 
where you got your ‘finest young man,’ ” said Sarah, sar- 
castically. 

“I found him!” 


16 


EDITH AND JOHN 


“Is he rich?” asked Sarah. 

“Never thought of that!” 

“Where did you find him, Edith?” 

“Bumped into him in the streets — now, don’t scold me, 
Sarah!” 

“Why, Edith!” exclaimed Sarah, rising, and holding up 
her hands, and opening wide her prudish eyes. Sarah’s sense 
of the proper fitness of things old-maidenishly would not 
permit her even to meditate on such a horrible deed. 

“Do not be unduly alarmed, Sarah,” calmly remarked 
Edith. “It was an accident — oh, such an extraordinary 
accident, Sarah, and so ridiculous on my part that I still 
feel the effects of it on my mirthful nature.” 

“Tell me all about it, my dear Edith?” said Sarah, now 
buttoning up the back of Edith’s dinner gown. 

“If you will not tell — promise?” 

“You have my promise, Edith; but you wouldn’t keep 
such a secret from your mother, would you?” 

“I do not want to, Sarah; but I am afraid, if I tell her, 
she will scold me.” 

“Now, what did you do, Edith?” asked Sarah. 

‘ ‘ Stood in the rain the longest time talking to the 
strange young man.” 

“Why, Edith!” exclaimed Sarah, for the fifth or sixth 
time. 

“No why about it, Sarah. It was an unavoidable acci- 
dent. I ran into him, he into me. My hat fell off, rolled 
into the gutter, and my umbrella was rendered limp in one 
of its poor wings. Now, could I help that, Sarah?” 

“Perhaps not.” 

“Well, he recovered my hat, held his umbrella over me 
while I put it on again, gave me his umbrella and he took 
my crippled one.” 

“Is that all?” 

“We talked some.” 

“Talked? Good gracious!” 

“Yes, talked, Sarah — really talked.” 

“Why, Edith!” 

“Now, Sarah, be sensible, and listen. He was so polite, 
so courteous — ” 

“They’re all that way,” interrupted Sarah, a man hater. 

‘‘ — but him,” returned Edith, not meaning it in the 


EDITH AND JOHN 


17 


same sense that Sarah did. was going to say, Sarah, that 
I could not resist his good face.’’ 

‘'Who is he?” asked Sarah, coldly. 

“John Winthrope!” 

“What does he do?” 

“Works in my father’s office!” 

“Lordy!” exploded Sarah at this revelation, for really 
Sarah was the snob instead of Edith. “And you stopped 
to talk with him in the street?” 

“Sarah, you are mean — real mean — cruel, exasperating. 
Sarah, I will have nothing more to do with you, if you talk 
that way any more 1 I will get a new maid, or have none 
at all — that I will, Sarah! Now, take your choice!” 

This from Edith, who was usually so calm, so even tem- 
pered, and so reasonable in all matters. But Sarah had 
aroused her dormant nature by such a reference to class 
distinction, that Edith, in her liberal way of looking at the 
world in general, could not reconcile Sarah’s views with 
justice, if each human being concerned was equally en- 
dowed morally, physically and mentally. 

“I will say no more, Edith,” humbly surrendered the 
prudent Sarah. 

Dinner was announced, and Edith descended to the bril- 
liancy of the great dining room, where her parents were 
awaiting her arrival to be seated with them. Edith was 
charming in her changed habiliment. Could John but see 
her now! But John had no password as yet to this rich 
home. 

“Now, Edith, to the story,” said Mrs. Jarney, after they 
had seated themselves around the sumptuously provided 
table. 

“What is that?” asked Mr. Jarney, looking at his wife, 
and for the first time getting an inkling of Edith’s experi- 
ences, then turning his eyes questioningly upon Edith. 

“Nothing serious, papa,” said Edith, noting that he was 
surprised over the manner in which her mother had put 
the question. 

“Well, then, dear Edith, go on,” said her father, in his 
usually kind tone. 

“Promise, papa, that you will not be hard on me?” 
pressed Edith. 

“As long as you have done no wrong, Edith, I promise,” 
he replied. 


18 


EDITH AND JOHN 


Then Edith related her tale, down to the minutest detail, 
even as to how it affected her afterwards — except that 
she kept the impression that it left upon her heart as her 
own invioable secret. 

“Edith,” said her father, after she had finished, and after 
he had pondered a few moments over the possible effect on 
the young man in the office, and after smiling and laughing 
heartily, “Edith, it certainly is a peculiar coincidence. I 
am glad to know the party turned out to be our newest 
addition to the office force, and not a ruffian.” 

This ended the general conversation about John Win- 
thrope. None of them considered the event in any other 
light than if she had had a similar encounter with the ash- 
man — except Edith. But still they did not cease referring 
to the matter occasionally for some time, for after all they 
could not help but marvel on it. 

Edith was unusually cheerful after she found her parents 
were not vexed. She sang and played on the piano, read a 
few pages in a novel, talked, laughed, went up and down 
the rooms, wondering, wondering what it was that agitated 
her so and raised her spirits to such a high tension. 

Finally, after what appeared to be an age in passing, 
she became weary, and went to bed, to sleep, and dream, 
perhaps, of a fair young man, miles and miles below her 
station in life. 

And the rain beat down upon the roof above her with 
the same homely sound as it beat down upon the roofs above 
all mankind that night. 


CHAPTER HI. 

THE OLD JUNK SHOP. 

The rusty perspective of a four story building rises in 
the midst of many similarly nondescript structures, between 
Wood and Liberty streets, looking out over the cobble- 
stoned wharf skirting the Monongahela river, flowing laz- 
ily by. 

It was builded in the days when it was a lofty office 
building: when its three flights of darkened stairs were 
mounted by leg muscle: in the days when its little windows 


EDITH AND JOHN 


19 


were barn-doors of undimmed light, and the panes were of 
minimum size for economy sake : in the days when the 
steamboat trade was a valuable asset of the river front mer- 
chants: in the days when men fought in the merry war of 
competition, and when life was not so strenuous as it is now: 
in the days when its name stood prominently among the 
business blocks in the city directory. But now it has no 
resemblance to its former self ; it makes no impression on 
the passer-by, unless he be the curious delving into ancient 
lore ; it is silently languishing into the past, waiting for the 
strong arm of Progress to raze it to the ground for some- 
thing more imposing in its place. 

Here, in the past, were offices on the upper floors de- 
voted to the exclusive use of professional men; while on 
the ground floor, for years, a merchant held sway with an 
assortment of merchandise that equaled in variety, if not in 
quantity, the great department stores of the present. 

Where the store was, .there is a junk shop now, and it 
is called The Die. In it may be found, collected together 
in an heterogeneous mass, a miscellaneous lot of rubbish 
that even the bearish-like proprietor himself wonders, some- 
times, where it all comes from, and whither it all goes. Here 
may be found the worn out and cast off articles of rivermen: 
boatmen, wharfmen, raftsmen, and every other class oi' 
men who ply their trade in, on, and about the water. Here 
may be found an indeterminable assortment of wearing 
apparel, for all ages of men, women and children, in all 
conditions of wear and tear, from a riverman’s oiled coat, 
with greasy spots upon it and burned holes in many places 
in it, to a worn out pair of infantine shoes. Here may bo 
found a hecatomb of articles of the household, of the store, 
of the office, of the hotel, of the church, of the school, of 
the cemetery, of the railway yards, of the building of jus- 
tice, of jail, of penitentiary — from every place, almost — all 
telling a tale of grandeur, of poverty, of happiness, of 
misery ; of pride, of modesty, of virtue ; of honor, of dis- 
honor; of sickness, pain and death. 

The keeper of this shop, at this period in this narrative, 
was Peter Dieman — a red-jowled, pig-eyed, sharp-nosed, 
dirty-mouthed, frowsy-headed, big-bellied American, whose 
ancestry may be determined by his name. A glance into 
his gloomy place was enough to convince the most unob- 


20 


EDITH AND JOHN 


serving that he was specially adapted to his established 
trade of buying and selling all manner of second-hand goods, 
ranging in value from a penny to the enormous sum of one 
great American Eagle ; and seldom, if ever, did anything 
go above the latter figure, when he was the purchaser; but 
when he was the seller — that was different. 

In the rear of the darksome room, on the ground floor, 
there was a little cubby-hole built around a little window’ 
that opened on the rear street. The window was so be- 
grimed with dust and cobwebs that it was necessary, even 
on the brightest days, to keep a sixteen candle power incan- 
descent globe going continually to furnish sufficient light 
for the proprietor to see himself, and enable him to scribble 
down his accounts, what few he kept in books. In this 
gruesome little office Peter sat, from early morning to late 
night, smoking his foul smelling pipe, receiving his cash from 
sales, and also receiving the people who did not call on 
strictly commercial affairs; and betimes he peered through 
a smoky glass-covered square hole that perforated one side 
of the thin partition that circled him about, into the store, 
watching, with squinting eyes, Eli Jerey, his clerk, dealing 
out the junk to the poor purchasers. 

Peter Dieman was a fiend incarnate, after money. He 
was avaricious to the core. He w^as relentlessly pressing in 
the collection of overdue bills, and heartlessly “jewing^’ 
in the purchase of the worn-out, worm-eaten, moth-ravaged 
articles that he gathered up, in his rounds, from the unfor- 
tunates, the n’er-do-wells, the hopeless mortals who had to 
sacrifice their goods and chattels to make ends meet ; or 
who, peradventure, were glad to dispose of any cumber- 
some article of their more prosperous days. Further, be- 
sides being a close dealer, he was a shaver of notes, a con- 
scienceless dealer wdthout regard whatever for the principles 
of justice, or the duties of a citizen, or the honor of the 
brethren of his tribe of men. And still further, he was so 
selfishly constituted that no barterer could ever equal him in 
his surprisingly pronounced talents for cheating, filching and 
over-charging. Without education, and alone, on his own 
initiative, and through his own painstaking, persistent, per- 
severing efforts he arose from nothing to, what would be 
considered by many, a state of enviable affluence for his 
station in the ranks of the commercial men of the city. 


EDITH AND JOHN 


21 


He could neither read nor write when he started out for 
himself on the road of life ; but by dint of much endeavor 
he learned to write by rote, like a blind man, and talk by 
imitation, like a parrot. For many years he was his own 
buyer, his own seller, his own bookkeeper, his own handy 
man and henchman. But when he had accumulated a world 
of experience, a great quantity of junk, a large sum of 
money, and the desire to be an expert ward heeler, he hired 
Eli Jerey, as a boy of ten, to be his helper. 

Now, Eli was a lad with no more ambition than a toad. 
Being obsessed with that slavish passion one finds in so 
many of his class to serve a master for a mere competance 
that would meet his daily expenses, he went about his busi- 
ness with such translucent simplicity and dutiful obedience 
to his master’s will that he worked from six in the morning 
till seven in the evening with such a zeal that Peter could 
make no complaint whatever to his energy in keeping shop, 
while he in turn kept office and watched through the little 
square hole* aforesaid. 

This place became known as The Die early in the career 
of Peter — a corruption of the name of Dieman, and per- 
haps a revealer of his principles. 

One day, in September, while the fog and smoke hung 
darkly over the river and everything, a short heavyset man, 
very plainly dressed, but with an inquisitorial air in his 
bearing, sauntered into the shop, and looked about as care- 
lessly and indolently as if he were a sojourner come to view, 
with a curious eye, the accumulation of things as if on dis- 
play in a museum. The stranger walked about, with his 
hands in his pockets, through the narrow aisles between 
ropes, chains, furniture, pictures, old shoes, hats, clothing, 
saws, hammers, hatchets, and a thousand and one other 
things piled up, hanging about, swinging here, or perching 
there. He was so mysterious in his movements that Eli, 
upon concluding a simple deal with a touting riverman, 
came timidly up to him in such a condescending manner 
that the stranger was struck with amusing amazement at the 
deferential halo that seemed to pervade the shrimp-like 
head of the clerk. 

“Anything?” asked Eli, approaching. 

“Well, I don’t know,” answered the stranger, his eyes 
roving about the room. “I just came in to see if you had 


22 


EDITH AND JOHN 


anything I wanted.” Still gazing abstractedly into a far 
corner where lay deeper piles of junk, he went on, “I guess, 
though, from the looks of things, I might get anything I 
want here, from a gimlet to a gibet.” 

Eli stared doubtfully at the man, wondering at his utter 
lack of concentration on the object sought. In the mean- 
time, Peter was not off his guard at his peephole. He was 
standing, looking out, rubbing his hands and squinting, in 
an effort to make out the identity of the man. 

“Nothing in iron? Nothing in ropes? Nothing in old 
clothes? Nothing in furniture?” asked Eli. 

“Don’t know just yet,” answered the stranger, now 
with his eyes cast down upon the docile but ever guardful Eli. 

“What then?” asked Eli, still pursuing his questioning, 
and still indecisive as to how to approach this uncommuni- 
cative customer. 

“I am just looking,” answered the stranger, vacantly. 
‘ ‘ Oh, well — just to see if I can see anything of benefit that 
I might carry off.” 

Then off he went, mozying through the congested aisles, 
with that vacuous stare about him that is assumed, usually, 
by a Jehue in a vaudeville show. Eli followed him, very 
closely, watching very sharply, being suspicious all the time 
that he might pick up a stray pin and carry it off without 
just compensation to his close-fisted master. The stranger 
strayed on, in and out, in and out, among the junkage, till 
he came at last to the cubby-hole, eyed through at that 
moment by old Peter. 

Arriving at the entrance of Peter’s sanctuary, the stranger 
stopped, looked about him listlessly, and took hold of the 
latch of the door, pressed his thumb slowly upon it, opened 
it, and walked within, without invitation, or concern as to 
who might be the occupant therein — bear or man. 

“Good morning,” said Peter, eyeing him suspiciously. 
“What do you want?” 

“Well, sir,” answered the stranger, “I just stepped in a 
moment to see if you could supply me with a kit of tools.” 

“This is my office, sir; my office,” said Peter, cross as a 
she-bear. “Why didn’t you ask my clerk, sir; my clerk?” — 
now rubbing his hands briskly and leering at the stranger. 
“He will supply your wants, maybe, sir, if he has what you 
want.” 


EDITH AND JOHN 


23 


‘H always deal with the proprietor of an establishment,” 
remarked the stranger, seating himself. ‘‘No harm in that, 
I reckon, sir?” 

“None,” returned Peter, with a growl. “None, sir.” 

“Then, do you have a kit of burglar tools?” asked the 
stranger, with a suavity of an oily-tongued vender of patent 
medicine. 

Peter looked him over again more critically, eyed him 
more suspiciously, growled out an unintelligible word or two, 
and sat down himself in a corner, but in such a position 
that he still could keep one eye on his loophole of ob- 
servance. 

“No, sir!” deliberately groaned out Peter, “I never carry 
such articles by choice.” 

“Then by chance, perhaps?” questioned the stranger. 

“Nor by chance, if I can help it,” screeched the crusty 
Peter. “I am an honest dealer in my wares.” 

“I presume so,” returned the stranger, with his eyes 
roaming about the four bare walls of the cubby-hole, as if 
he were unwinding his thoughts preparatory to a plunge into 
the secrets of something hidden within his breast. 

“You doubt my word, sir?” said Peter, on his dignity. 

“Your veracity, I presume,” calmly remarked the 
stranger, “is equal to the rest of men in business.” 

“It is, sir,” answered Peter, foaming. 

“Well, if you have not got what I want, I must leave your 
place without it,” said the stranger, with a nonchalance that 
caused Peter to squint one of his little eyes up like a ques- 
tion mark. 

“I am a fair dealer in all things, I am, sir,” retorted 
Peter, “and I don’t like for strangers coming about here 
and eyeing as if I was in league with criminals, or any other 
such disreputables.” 

“That’s all right, stranger,” replied the stranger, with 
mollifying effectiveness. “This being a junk shop, I took it 
to be no more than natural to find here such tools as I have 
indicated.” 

Peter rubbed his dirty hands together for a moment, gave 
an avaricious curl to his under lip, squinted his porcine eyes, 
and asked: 

“What do you propose doing with them tools?” 

Then he suddenly turned his head, with a grin of malice 


24 


EDITH AND JOHN 


on his countenance, and looked through his peephole at Eli, 
whom he saw at that moment parlying with a forlorn creature 
of the feminine gender. After gazing thereat for a moment, 
he turned to the stranger to receive an answer to his ques- 
tion. 

“Nothing, any more than that I want them,” answered 
the stranger, carelessly. 

“That is not a satisfactory answer,” said Peter, again 
turning to his peephole, from which place he could not now 
unrivet his eyes. 

“That^s my only answer,” replied the stranger. “Your 
name is Peter Dieman, is it not?” 

Peter quickly unriveted his eyes, and looked up with 
astonishment at the peculiar tone in the stranger’s voice, 
and the sharp look in his steel-gray eyes. 

“It is my name,” growled Peter. 

“I knew it was — judging by the sign over the door,” 
said the stranger. 

“Then why in the devil do you ask such a foolish ques- 
tion, if you knew it?” said Peter, ferociously. 

“Because, I wanted to make sure,” said the stranger. 
“Say, Mr. Dieman,” he now asked, “do you know Ford & 
Ford, who are after the contract for repaving 444th 
street with wood blocks?” 

“I do.” 

“Do you know Councilman Biff?” 

“I do.” 

“You know all the other councilmen?” 

“I do.” 

“Very well. Do you know the chief clerk?” 

“I do.” 

“How many can you buy?” 

Peter eyed him again, growled again, again peeped out 
of his place of espial at Eli and the forlorn creature still 
parlying, rubbed his hands, run his greasy fingers through 
his thin setting of hair, coughed, sneezed, looked out the peep- 
hole, screwed his mouth to one side, hem-hawed, then snorted : 

“Who do you represent?” 

“Ford & Ford. Here is my passport to you,” replied 
the stranger, handing Peter a typewritten sheet of paper 
signed by a member of that firm. 

“Why, in the devil, didn’t you make yourself known in 
the beginning?” 


EDITH AND JOHN 


25 


“Oh, I just wanted to lead you up to the question.” 

“What do they want?” 

“They want the contraet.” 

“Have they got the money?” 

“They have.” 

“It will cost you — ” 

“We have the necessary amount.” 

“ — Fifty thousand to get it — money first.” 

“When do you want the money?” 

“Tomorrow at eleven o’clock.” 

The stranger arose, went out into the smoke and fog, 
and disappeared somewhere into the infolding channels of 
great business undertakings of this wonderfully prosperous 
city of steel and iron, where even the hearts of men are as 
the material that the great blast furnaces spew out, day 
and night, for seven days in the week, week in and 
week out. 


CHAPTER IV. 

IN HELL’S HALF ACRE. 

The forlorn individual whom Peter Dieman saw through 
his spyhole, during his soul stirring conversation with the 
stranger, was Kate Barton, the wife of Billy Barton, the 
waterman, and the ragged but chunky young woman with 
her was her daughter. Star Barton. 

They had come into Peter’s place to redeem, if possible, 
or to take away as a gift of charity, if lucky, a few bat- 
tered and broken kitchen utensils that Billy Barton had 
sold during one of his thirsty spells while staggering through 
a vaporless period of inebriacy. 

Kate Barton’s outlook on life was hopeless. She came 
into the world as poor as the proverbial church mouse, and 
seemed doomed to go out of it even poorer. She married 
Billy Barton, a shiftless young man, with an inherent pre- 
dilection for hankering after the flowing bowl, and ere 
she had passed a score of years of wedded life twelve inno- 
cent starvelings had opened their eyes to her as their 
mother to gravitate for themselves around the “old block.” 


26 


EDITH AND JOHN 


The poor woman! She was a meek victim of the direst 
kind of circumstances that could possibly surround a human 
being. She was one of those submissive and inept mortals 
that blindly plod the road of domesticity without a spark 
of the beautiful to light up the narrow channel of unre- 
quitted effort. When she married Billy Barton, she went 
about it with that fatality of purpose as is usual with her 
class, and bore her burdens with the equanimity of a horse 
hitched to a loaded cart on the uphill pull, without a thought 
for anything beyond her daily tribulations, save that vague 
idea that the good Lord would take care of her in the after 
while. She had no ambition further than the difficult task 
of caring for her home with its limited accommodations and 
plethoric adornment of young life. The unworthy addition 
of an imbibing husband, on whom she looked as an inalien- 
able part of her existence, did in no sense tend her thoughts 
to any less love for him than if he had been a more re- 
nowned character among men. Poor, helpless woman! 

When Peter Dieman saw her that day through his place 
of outlook, he saw a woman as lean as a bean pole, as 
tall as a rail splitter, as cadaverous as a ghost, with a 
hook nose, deeply sunken gray eyes, a complexion that was 
a cross between yellow and black, brown stringy hair and 
toothless mouth. Her dress was of faded black alpaca, her 
shoes coarse and well worn, with a dirty yellow shawl 
hooded over her head and hanging with frayed edges over 
her shoulders. 

After the stranger had left him, Peter stood a few 
moments, blinkingly observing her. He then stepped out 
of his office into the less dingy shop. He lumbered up to 
where she stood having an altercation with Eli Jerey. 

“Well, Mrs. Barton,” he said, rubbing his hands as if 
very cold, and grinning like a Cheshire cat; “can’t you 
and Eli come to terms? What is the trouble?” 

“Eli Jerey says I cannot redeem my goods without I 
pay a profit for your trouble,” she answered. 

“Can’t have what?” he quizzed. 

“Them things that Bill sold you to get drink money 
Avith,” she replied. 

“What things?” asked Peter. 

“Them dishes of mine — them tin pans — them knives — 
them forks — them spoons — he carried off,” she whimper- 
ingly returned. 


EDITH AND JOHN 


27 


“I paid him the cash for them — the cold cash, Mrs. 
Barton,” said Peter, with a stony smile. 

“You did, no doubt, or else he wouldn’t Ve been drunk 
last night,” she replied. 

“I never ask any questions where the things I buy come 
from — I give all anything is worth; no more, no less, and 
never ask where the money goes when it leaves my hands — I 
expect to sell them for a profit, or else what am I in busi- 
ness for?” thus screeched the junkman. 

“Oh, Mr. Dieman!” wailed the poor creature. “I have 
nothing left to cook with or eat on. He’s taken the last 
dish in the house. My children have been eating off the 
bare boards — and eating their vituals raw.” 

“That’s not my outlook, Mrs. Barton,” retorted Peter, 
rubbing his hands now more vigorously than ever, as if he 
had a fresh chill, or had just come in out of a cold blast of 
weather. 

“I thought you might return them to me,” said Mrs. 
Barton, appealingly. 

“Thought nothing,” he answered, with a croak. “Give 
me my price and you can take them.” 

“I have only fifty cents,” said the forlorn woman, “and 
I need that to buy something to eat.” 

“I have nothing to give you, Mrs. Barton,” he snorted, 
turning his back to her, and rubbing his hands as if in 
meditation, and batting his small eyes, as if he were winking 
at his little god — Mammom. 

Feeling that it was hopeless to plead with him for the 
articles, and wanting to save her fifty cents, Mrs. Barton 
turned solwly, pulled the yellow shawl closer over her head 
and shoulders, and started to leave the junk shop. Eli stood 
by agape, without a sign of sympathy for her, or an emo- 
tion of any kind, any more than if he had been a fence post. 
Mrs. Barton bowed her head as she walked away, and her 
daughter, Star, after easting a disdainful look at Eli, fol- 
lowed. Eli stood still looking after them. Peter stood still 
rubbing his hands and batting his eyes, as if he were prepar- 
ing to offer up devotion to his diety. Then of a sudden he 
turned, and roared: 

“Come back, Mrs. Barton!” 

Mrs. Barton stopped as suddenly as Peter had cried out, 
faced about, and looked blankly at the object who gave the 
command. 


28 


EDITH AND JOHN 


“Come back!” roared Peter again. 

The poor woman, having no reason to be independent 
about the matter, went hesitatingly toward him. When she 
came up to the blinking idol of greed, she stood waiting for 
him to speak further. 

“Take your old things, and tell Bill the next time he 
comes into my place of business I’ll tear him to pieces,” he 
cried. “I’ve had enough of him already. He’s nothing 
but an old sot, unworthy of a woman like you,” now with 
commiseration in his sordid heart for her, and only con- 
demnation for her weak husband. “Take them, and go, 
and tell him that I’ll get even with him sometime.” 

“Thank you; thank you,” said Mrs. Barton, with a gleam 
of merciful gratitude in her eyes for this philanthropic pig. 

“Eli,” said Peter, without returning a “welcome” to 
Mrs. Barton, as he turned to that dutiful menial, “give the 
woman her trumphery and let her begone.” 

Then rubbing his hands more furiously, and squinting his 
eyes more swiftly and gritting his teeth more viciously at 
the turn this action of benefaction gave his conscience, he 
waddled to his black office, where he resumed his smoking, 
and took to calculating to a certainty as to how he could 
recover from some one else the small pittance he was out 
by this disreputable transaction, as he termed it, on the part 
of Billy Barton, the waterman. 

Eli Jerey at once proceeded. to obey his superior, for 
that was his only aim at that period in his life. Into a 
gunny sack he piled the chipped and broken dishes, the 
battered pans, the rusty iron forks and knives, and tin 
spoons, composing the entire culinary outfit of Kate Barton. 

With the sack thus loaded, Mrs. Barton swung it once 
in front of her, and with a quick jerk whirled it over her 
right shoulder, bent under it as if it were of great weight, 
said good bye to Eli, and strode out, with Star following. 
They crossed the street and went down the glacis of the 
cobblestoned wharf. Following the water’s edge, they 
passed among the miscellaneous collection of freight piled 
high on every hand. Over taut ropes, holding boats, barges 
and rivermen’s houses, they stepped, catching their toes 
now and then, and almost falling ; proceeding ever on, 
through all kinds of heaps and piles of freightage; ever on, 
among the men moving about performing their duties silently. 


EDITH AND JOHN . 


29 


Ever on, Kate Barton led the way, a tireless, fearless, for- 
bidding being, who created no more comment among the 
habitues of this district than if she were nowhere to be seen; 
till, at last, she, like one with the joy of success bound up 
in a spiritless heart, arrived where a dog-boat lay tethered 
to a ring-bolt in the stone abutment of the Point bridge. 

Into the boat she tumbled her bundle, with no thought 
as to the result such an act might have upon the dishes, 
ordered Star to climb in and take a seat in the rear, untied 
the rope, and jumped in herself as she gave the boat a 
shove into the stream. Taking up the oars she bent to them 
with the energy of a man, and pulled through the puffing, 
snorting, wheezing, churning craft for the farther shore — 
where house boats lay moored; where shanties hugged dan- 
gerously close to the water line; where decrepit buildings 
stood in all stages of deformity; where every inch of ground 
on the narrow space between the margin of the river and 
the verticle cliff behind was utilized to its utmost with 
everything imaginable, from the detritus of the hill to a 
pretentious manufacturing plant of equivocal worth in its 
baleful aspect. The hill above was straight up and down, 
almost, rock ribbed and bleak, a barrier to the pleasant 
places above and beyond; and at its base a railway system 
held indisputable sway; while betwixt it and the river were 
the straggling homes of men, with a few stunted and wheezy 
domesticated animals and fowls roaming about them. 

Once upon a time this place bore the evil name of Hell’s 
Half Acre. 

To a low-browed, unpainted, unadorned, uninviting three- 
roomed shack Mrs. Barton took her way, with the bundle of 
precious household articles on her back, with Star following. 
They passed along narrow, winding alleys, with frightful 
looking fences bulging out, or leaning in; past foul mud 
holes; past filthy doorsteps, where brawling children, like 
her own, screamed at her, or taunted her, or spoke friendly 
to her; through sticky mire, over rickety board walks, over 
stepping stones at watery places, and on, over everything 
and through everything that had a squalid and sickly hue 
she went — with Star following — and with one unswerving 
gait, or changed expression of her leathery face, to the door 
of her own abode. 

The door squeaked with the pain of lassitude as she shoved 


30 


EDITH AND JOHN 


it open. She entered the kitchen — Star following. Drop- 
ping the sack on a dilapidated chair, she began lifting the 
contents therefrom, as the children gathered around, in all 
stages of filthiness, to see the operation. A toddling three- 
year-old grasped a spoon, as soon as he saw it come forth, 
and resorted to the ashes in the grate as material by which 
to test its usefulness. Another child took up a knife and 
began hacking at a table leg; another took up a cup and 
ran out to procure some water; while another took up a 
small battered tin pail to fetch in a little coal to replenish 
the dying fire. 

The children ranged in age from one to nineteen, the 
eldest — Michael — being away earning money for his own 
keep, ’so that she had a short dozen mouths to fill for the 
nonce. 

After completing the task of unburdening the sack, Mrs. 
Barton delivered the youngest child unto Star to tend while 
she set about to cook a meal. Her bill of fare was meager 
and simple, withal. It consisted wholly of fried potatoes, 
dough-bread hurryingly mixed, and coffee. After the fare 
was spread upon the table, ten greedy youngsters and their 
mother sat down to dine, while Star stood off, waiting to 
take potluck with the leavings. Unselfish child, as she was, 
she deferred always first to the appeasement of the hunger 
of the others. The savory provender lay heaped in a luster- 
less dish in the center of the table, and the coffee stood 
hot in a tin pot on a corner of the stove, while the bread 
was broken into fragments, as per age of child and capacity, 
and laid by each place. As plates and cups and saucers, 
knives and forks, were not sufficient to go around, the 
younger children fought and scratched and pulled as to 
whose turn should come “next” in being served. Some be- 
ing ferociously hungry, and impatient over delays, dipped 
into the platter with their hands, clapping the contents to 
their mouths, like monkeys, and ate their bread with such 
an eager determination to get filled up that they almost 
choked. Some drank the coffee out of the pot, and splut- 
tered and cried and slobbered with such wild frenzy that 
they were called she-wolves by their mother sitting by eat- 
ing sparingly but as contentedly and as heartily as if her 
young hopefuls were angels instead of brats. 

“Where’s your pap?” asked the mother, directing her 


EDITH AND JOHN 


31 


question to any, or all, of them, so indifferently was the 
question pronounced. 

“Went to the city,” answered the eldest. 

“Naw he didn’t,” said the ten-year-old, after taking a 
swallow of the faintly discolored water called coffee. 

“When did he go?” again questioned the mother, after 
the lapse of a few minutes. 

“Soon after you left,” answered the fourteen-year-old, 
indifferent as to where he went, “and took his overcoat 
with him.” 

“To sell it, too, s’pose,” said the mother unconcernedly. 

“Yep,” replied the ten-year-old; “said he’d bring me a 
pair of shoes.” 

“I see you gettin’ a pair of shoes from him, Liz,” retorted 
the mother, without the least concern whether the child had 
any or no, as she rolled the fried potatoes and dough-bread 
between her gums. 

Thus the mother and the children talked about “pap,”’ 
the father, who had that day wandered out of his beaten 
course, the one that he had learned to travel in so regu- 
larly for twenty years or more. This course lay between 
his squalid home and the tempting saloons that lined the 
streets of old Birmingham farther up the river way. Billy 
Barton was a man with an unconquerable appetite for 
strong drink as might be judged from what has been said 
heretofore. All his unvarying life before this memorable- 
day he had but one thought, but one ambition, but one pre- 
dominating idea, and that was to get drink — either by 
buying, begging, stealing, or trading for it. But when his 
wife left him this morning, with the parting word that she 
would fetch home the things that he had sold the day before, 
he, too, left shortly after her departure, taking with him an 
old rusty overcoat. 

As he departed from his door, with his flock of half- 
starved children standing in it watching him leave, he went 
with a new resolution in his mind, a new determination 
formed, a new purpose in view. This was that he would go 
away and And work — away from his old environments, away 
from his drunken associates. With this new resolve burning 
feebly in his irresolute breast, he struck a course for the 
mills in the Soho district. 

That night he did not return; nor the next day; nor the 


32 


EDITH AND JOHN 


next night; nor the following day. Mrs. Barton and the 
family thought little of his failure to return in the space 
of time, for they had been used to his absence on a spree 
for almost a whole week at a stretch. But when a week 
had gone by, and when ten days had gone by, and two 
weeks had finally passed, they began to feel uneasy at his 
prolonged absence. When a third week had passed and he 
did not put in an appearance in the hilarious condition they 
anticipated to behold him wheeling down upon them, the 
mother thought it time to make some concerted attempt to 
ascertain the cause of his disappearance. 

She took the matter very calmly, consoling herself with 
the refiection that her spouse was safe somewhere, or other- 
wise she would have heard about him through the police 
department, or through the gossips of her disreputable 
neighborhood. Little by little she began to inquire cursorily 
among the neighbors, then among the keepers of the saloons, 
then of the policeman of the district. She got no tidings 
of him. A month passed; no news. Another month passed; 
no news. He was gone. 

So Kate Barton, with her twelve children, was left alone 
to fight against starvation, or go to the poor house, or have 
her family broken up, and scattered among the charitable, 
who are very often among the worst as saviors of the outcasts. 

Alone, alone! What if we, who live in gilded halls, had 
to take her place! Ah, we would call on a merciful God to 
deliver us! For there are things in this life, mind you, my 
good keepers of the loaves and fishes, that are even worse 
than death — worse than death. 

Alas, too often, men of piety are prone to shun their 
Christian duty. Millions of beings, such as she, vegetate 
from the cradle to the grave and never see the ministering 
hand of the followers of that Christ who taught that it is 
more blessed to give than to receive. Millions go up and 
down the obscure pathways of this world, within the sacred 
sound of the clanking bells of religion, and never receive 
the helping meed that was promised them. Millions live 
like the rioting motes invisible in the air about us as if all 
the philanthrophy of Christendom were set aside for the 
chosen few. The successful gloat over and glory in their 
achievements, and extend a cursory hand to those below as 
if they were fulfilling the ten commandments as a great 


EDITH AND JOHN 


33 


finale of their extravaganza. But, do they do any good? 
There are many Kate Bartons all around us, the natural 
among the unnatural, who deserve more compassion from 
those preachers of the Good Will than they ever receive. 
It is not believed by all that only the chosen few shall 
answer the call. It is not believed by all that the doctrine 
of the Christ should prevail one day in the week and be sunk 
in oblivion for the other six. No, not by all. 

But Kate Barton’s day shall come, some day; and those 
who shun her now will assert their cringing hypocracy when 
she has been lifted up, and not lifted by their hands. 

Charity is not what the Kate Bartons want — it is the 
meed of opportunity. 


CHAPTER V. 

STAR BARTON SEEKS A NEW HOME. 

Star Barton? She was the one scintillating light that 
shone out of the milky way of the Barton family. She was 
a sport of the family tree — a lily nourished in a quagmire. 
And how a wondering world marvels at such unaccountable 
things of nature ! 

Through eighteen weary summers and eighteen dreary 
winters she went, before seeing a light above the dim 
horizon of her impoverished world. Through babyhood she 
crawled in frightful filth, as if it were a part of her wretched 
existence, seeing nothing beyond the bare walls and bare 
floors of her cramped up playgrounds; through childhood 
she toddled, with the same dismal conditions abetting her 
expanding innocence ; through the period of adolescence 
she walked without a thought of what the outside world 
contained, except as she intuitively gathered such knowledge 
as the thick curtain of ignorance slowly rose before her; 
till now she had come to the springtime of womanhood, full 
of its snares and pitfalls for such as she. Then, like the 
bursting of the sun through a rent-way in the clouds on a 
rainy day, she, for the first time, saw the beckoning star 
that should lead her on — on — on — to a life of rectitude, 
or — dissoluteness. 


34 


EDITH AND JOHN 


Star Barton was the second child of Kate Barton, and 
early in her teening years gave some promise of her future. 
When only ten she began to be a drudge, doing all the 
things that her delicate hands could, with exertion, be laid 
to. She was the patient ‘‘little mother” to all the new 
babies as they yearly floated out of Paradise to this place 
of desolation. She was the scrub-woman, the washer-woman, 
the char-woman, the cook, the chamber maid, ever cheerful 
in her efforts to perform her tasks. Illy clad, scantily fed, 
roundly abused by her father, continually scolded by her 
mother, and never praised by either parent, she mutely sub- 
mitted, like a black slave, to all the torments of blighting 
servitude that could be heaped upon her. Thus, for eighteen 
long years. Star Barton was subjected to all the demoraliz- 
ing influences of drunkenness and poverty ; and how she 
came out of it unblighted any one may wonder at. And 
now, at this age, she stood looking out the narrow window 
of her vantage point, seeing the promise of a brighter life. 

Then why was she a freak of nature from the family 
tree? Because she had a round face, pink cheeks, two even 
rows of white teeth, two mild blue eyes underneath dark 
eyebrows, a sharp, shrewd, straight nose, and dark hair; and 
because she was of average height, well formed, muscular 
and courageous; and still, because nature had provided her, 
as it provides the offspring , of the weak, sometimes, with 
all the qualities and graces that were necessary to combat 
the deteriorating effects of a life of toil. 

As suddenly as she had seen the new light mount the 
horizon of her life, as suddenly did she long for better ways, 
a better home, a better life. This longing came to her the 
very time her father disappeared. She sought work, and 
found it, still as a drudge, in a lodging house up in Birming- 
ham. The small pittance that she earned she took home 
every Saturday night, and gave it to her mother as a 
helping mite towards banishing the horde of wolves that 
constantly prowled about her door. This small sum was not 
sufficient to maintain a successful contest with those beasts 
of starvation that gnawed their way, like famished whelps, 
into the growing bodies of the ten starvelings of Kate Barton. 
But, notwithstanding, Star never failed in her willingness to 
turn her last penny for their sustenance. An older brother 
had been her assistant in this trial, and he kept it up with 


EDITH AND JOHN 


35 


a good will till about the hour the father had deserted 
them; but he, losing heart, after acquiring new habits and 
forming ill-savored acquaintances, so far forgot his duty to 
his mother that he also deserted her in her time of greatest 
need. He went away as suddenly as her father — they knew 
not where. And Star was ever faithful, ever trustworthy, 
ever to be relied upon by her hapless mother. 

One day, after ten hours of the severest toil. Star came 
home, with the little bundle of her personal elfects under 
her arm. It was on that memorable day in November when 
the heavens seemed to have bursted their flood gates and let 
out a deluge to come down in gimlets to pierce the fog and 
smoke with its weird pattering. Without cloak, or coat, or 
protection of any kind, Star waded through the sodden 
streets, arriving at the door of her home as wet as a drown- 
ing rat. Entering, she deposited her bundle on the only 
table in the house, and took up a position close to a cast 
iron stove that was about as cheerless in its warmth as the 
evening itself. She was so thoroughly soaked that every 
lineament of her form could be seen through the thin gar- 
ment that clung to her body as closely as paper on a wall. 

‘‘Mother,” said Star, as that lean creature came indo- 
lently into the room, “I have quit my job.” 

“You have?” answered the mother, about as carelessly 
as if she were talking gossip over the back fence. 

“Yes, mother, I have quit.” 

“Very well, I’ve lots to do here; I reckon you can keep 
busy,” said the mother, as if the future had been provided 
with all the necessaries of life. 

Star left her mother suckling a child by the stove, and 
proceeded to her dark and shabbily furnished room for a 
change of clothing. Presently she returned looking less 
distressful. Then she bathed her face in a water bucket that 
stood on a box by a besmoked window, following with the 
combing of her long dark hair. After which, she rolled her 
hair into a knot at the back of her head, looked into a 
crooked mirror, dampened her Angers on her tongue and 
touched her eyebrows, then set to work to cook the evening 
meal for the brats caterwauling around like so many wild- 
cats. 

Kate Barton gave no concern about Star’s future. She 
asked no questions as to w^hy she quit her work as scrub- 


36 


EDITH AND JOHN 


woman at the lodging house. She said nothing that would 
leave the least impression as to what she thought about pro- 
viding for the family. Deplorable mortal! 

‘‘Mother,” said Star, after awhile, “I am going away 
tomorrow to look for a new place.” 

“It makes no difference. Star,” was the response of the 
mother. “I can use you here.” 

“How will we live, if I don’t work, mother?” 

“As we have always lived, s’pose.” 

“And that has been poorly, mother.” 

“Yes.” 

“Don’t you want me to go away, mother?” 

“It makes no difference, s’pose,” answered the mother. 
“I’ve put up with it this long, s’pose I can put up with it 
the rest of my days.” 

“Mother,” said Star, whose love for her mother was of 
the undemonstrative kind, the kind born of instinct, and is 
taken for granted among the very poor; “mother, I am going 
to the East End tomorrow to look for a job as a domestic 
in a rich man’s home.” 

“Yes,” replied the mother. 

“A woman came to me today and told me to go to a cer- 
tain house, in the East End, where I could get work at six 
dollars a week, and board thrown in.” 

“Yes, Star,” returned the mother, now showing a little 
more interest in the conversation than she had shown in any 
thing before — unless it was, perhaps, her drunken husband. 

“Mother?” 

“Yes, Star.” 

“That is twenty-four dollars a month; that will keep 
me in clothing, and plenty for the children to eat.” 

“Yes, Star,” said the mother, as she rose from her chair, 
with the suckling still hanging to her breast, and walked 
across the floor, for no purpose whatever, other than that 
perhaps the performance might dissolve her cold brooding 
into a semblance of interest in her material welfare. Then 
she sat down again and rocked to and fro with the rockerless 
chair, as a jolting dose of soothing syrup for the pain that 
had suddenly twisted the child’s mouth into a howling 
breadth. 

“And mother,” continued Star, “the woman gave me the 
address of a rich family that wants a maid for a young 


EDITH AND JOHN 


37 


lady, or a cook, or something else, I forget which.” 

“Yes, Star.” 

“And she said I could get the job if I go at once.” 

“Yes, Star,” responded the mother between the infinitisi- 
mal intervals of the noise of the thumping chair and the 
yelling child. 

“And mother, she said they live in a grand house as big 
as all our forty shanties here put together.” 

“Yes,” said the mother. 

“And she said it was lit up by electric lights, and had 
steam heat, and furniture as grand as any place, mother — 
as grand as any king’s palace, mother. I am going tomorrow, 
mother. ’ ’ 

“Yes,” returned the mother, as she turned the yelling 
child over her knee and gave it two or three smacks, causing 
it to become so red in the face that its phiz shone more 
brightly than the lambent rays that filtered through the 
smoky chimney of the kerosene lamp sitting on the table. 

“And she said, mother,” still pursued Star, as she went 
about among the battered pans and rattled the cracked and 
broken dishes she was displaying on the family board, the 
while stirring the frying potatoes in the sheet-iron skillet, 
and watching the coffee pot that it did not boil away all the 
aroma, “that the young lady who wants a maid is so very 
handsome and so fine that I cannot sleep till I get there.” 

“Yes,” croaked the mother, a little irritated, it appeared, 
by all these revelations that Star was unfolding before her; 
for nothing disturbed her so, it seemed, as the mention of 
such hifalutin things, although she herself, in all her lowliness, 
never disparaged, by word, anybody who had more than she, 
being a woman absolutely contented, with her lot. 

“May I go?” asked Star, who always felt it a matter 
of filial respect to defer to her parents’ beck and call. 

“Yes,” dolefully replied the mother, as she rocked the 
squalling brat on the rockerless chair with greater vigor than 
had been her practice. 

That night Star Barton went to bed with more stirring 
imaginings in her untrained head than she had ever pre- 
sumed upon before in all her dreary life. For a long time 
she lay awake seeing of the new vista that so suddenly 
opened before her disreputable habitat ; dreaming of another 


38 


EDITH AND JOHN 


place, so widely dissevered from hers, that it was like the 
enchanted land she once read about in a book that some 
roving spirit had conveyed to her haunts ; dreaimng of 
the wonders she had oftentimes conjured up to placate her 
plagued thoughts that hung like burning tapers of despair 
in her abiding place of want; dreaming, yea dreaming, for 
the first time in her whole unvaried life, of the things that 
are beautiful, grand and regal. Then she went to sleep to 
dream some more : — of the fantasies of an idle brain, of the 
children of her unconscious world, of the evil spirits that 
had ever been a part of her uneventful being, of the spirits 
that come to checkmate us in our mad rush, causing us to 
turn aside to ponder over their real meaning. 

But none of the visions of the sleeping hours was as 
promising as the fancies of her wakeful time. For when she 
awoke in the morning, the lustre that had pervaded her 
dreaming had waned, and she faltered over making the 
new and uncertain step. Oh what a bad little imp it is that 
seems to possess those of us, at times, who, when a new 
undertaking is to be entered upon, hesitate, procrastinate, 
pause and deliberate, till the time of opportunity is over! 

Star was, on this morning, in such a state of uncertainty, 
probably very much on account of the continuation of the 
nasty weather, that it was near the noon hour before she 
could resolve finally to spend ten cents for the fare to take 
the journey she had so set her head on the previous day. 
She donned her best blue gingham dress; coiled her hair up 
into a knot on top of her head; tied a faded black ribbon 
in it; adjusted an odd looking round black straw hat, with 
some faded fiowers breaking its sombre monotony, to her 
head; looked into the crazy little mirror that reflected her 
not much unlike some distorted beast with a white face ; 
threw a grayish cape over her shoulders, and went out into 
the rain. 

After a period of time that was very slow in passing, 
and after much fluttering of her virtuous heart, and consid- 
erable indecision whether to go on or to return to the place 
she knew so well, she arrived at the Highland avenue address 
given her the day before by the unknown, but friendly dis- 
posed, woman who met her at her last place of bondage. 
When she reached the great iron gate that opened into the 
spacious yard of the mansion on the hill, she again hesi- 


EDITH AND JOHN 


39 


tated, and walked back and forth on the pavement so many 
times that the keeper of the gate, with suspicion east upon 
her, came out to inquire the meaning of her actions. 

“I have come — I have come — ’’ faltered Star, feeling 
like fleeing from him in that moment of her bewilderment 
over the bigness of the outside world, “ — to look for a 
place. They gave me this number,” handing the keeper a 
card. 

The keeper, who was an oldish man, and perhaps had a 
daughter of his own, took the card, looked it over, looked 
at her, then looked at it; then looked at her. He saw that 
she had a beautiful face, was innocent and unbeguiling. 

“This is the place, miss,” he answered, kindly. “This is 
the way in,” and he opened the large gate, and passed her in. 

Star went up the smooth asphaltum walk with consider- 
able trepidation, heeding nothing about her, and seeing only 
the big house at the end. The most serious thing that she 
did was to go directly to the big front door, with its shining 
knocker that looked to her like the face of a bull in brass 
with a pendulous ring in its nose. She was in such a flurry 
that she could not have believed her own tongue, had she 
spoken then and there. She had never, in all her dreaming, 
imagined such things. Her head was in a whirl, and more 
than once she was on the point of turning back to her for- 
lorn mother, vrhere she felt she would be equal to her sur- 
roundings. 

However, summoning up all the courage and fortitude 
that she possessed, she at last tapped timidly at the door. 
No answer. She touched her red knuckles on one of the 
polished panels. No answer. Then, merely as a matter of 
curiosity, caught hold of the ring in the bull’s nose, pulled 
on it, and let it drop back into place, which was immediately 
followed by a dull brassy ring. Suddenly the door swung 
wide open, appearing to her as the door of a factory building, 
in its immensity. 

A tall, pompous gentleman — dressed like the men she 
had seen in a book on colonial characters, only this one had 
short hair and scragly sideburns — loomed up before her, 
like the Giant did to Jack, perhaps. His sudden appearance 
caused her to involuntarily start and draw back, with a 
greater desire than ever to flee ; but in a moment he spoke, 
hoarsely : 


40 


EDITH AND JOHN 


‘‘Go to the rear door!” 

Whereupon, he closed the door. The way into such gilded 
piles of luxury, for such as Star Barton in her present con- 
dition, is not by the front entrance. No graven lintel was 
ever raised to pass such as Star thereunder. Away, away, 
like a rat to its hole, steal into the less prominent openings 
leading to the apartments of the flunkies! 

Star was dazed by this action; but not knowing that it 
was any more than a big apartment house for the rich, she 
judged she had gone to the wrong door. So she, with a still 
fluttering heart, proceeded in the direction indicated. Before 
she had found the proper place, she had tried a number of 
the openings in the grim, gray walls, receiving the same re- 
ception at all of them as at the first. “Go to the rear,” “go 
to the rear,” was repeated so often to her that she began 
to feel dizzy from its repetition, and drowsy and faint over 
the possibility of failure. 

Then she came to a door where a cook answered her 
knock. He wore a white, brimless cap, and a big white apron 
covered up the rotundity of his front clear up to his chin 

and almost to his feet. He was large and fat and filled up 

almost the entire space of the opened door. He was red- 
faced and genial, and had a merry * twinkle in his blue 

eyes. He reminded Star of a big German butcher whom she 
knew in the marts of Birmingham. 

“Well!” he exclaimed, seeing the visitor to his quarters 
was a lady. 

“I came to see if you want a cook,” said Star, now feeling 
more composed since some one deigned to talk with her. 

“A cook!” he exclaimed, grinning. 

“A cook, yes, sir,” she answered. 

“We employ none but men cooks here, lady,” he replied, 
and was about to close the door. 

“Surely, I have made a mistake,” thought Star, in this 
moment of her rebuff, as she took it. Her heart was failing 
her. She felt disconsolate. She was about to turn and flee 
— back to her own elements, back to her own humble sur- 
roundings; to all the shortcomings of her home, to her stupid 
mother, to her unfortunate brothers and sisters, to her 
wretched existence again, and there take up her burdens as 
she before had borne them. 

The fat cook noticed the pallor that had come over Star’s 


EDITH AND JOHN 


41 


face, as the consequence of his remark, and instead of closing 
the door in her face, as he intended, he opened it wider, 
and said: 

“You must be in the wrong place. Miss.” 

“No sir; I am not,” she answered. “This is the address 
that was given me, where a cook was wanted — or I might 
be mistaken — it might be a maid is wanted for a young 
lady.” 

“Very doubtful,” said the cook, scratching his head. 

“None wanted?” she asked. 

“To get a place here you must have recommendations,” 
he answered. 

“I have never worked away from home,” she replied, 
“except for a few months. I have never been a maid to a 
lady. But — but — I want to learn. ” 

“Wait,” said the cook, quickly, as if he had thought of 
something that had been commended to his keeping and it 
had slipped his memory, as he retreated, and closed the door. 

In a few minutes the cook returned, with a smile on his 
round face that made him look like the full moon, and bade 
Star to walk within. Star walked within, dazed, trembling 
and mortally afraid of the line of domestics, before whom it 
appeared she was passing in review. She was conducted into 
the presence of a bouncing little lady, dressed like a princess, 
with gold on her wrists, in her ears, on her breast, around 
her neck — a charmingly spry little lady, with a dignified 
nose, a pretty smile, and an air of geniality about her that 
might not be expected in the mistress of such a household. 
The little lady looked Star over, scrutinized her from head 
to foot. Every inch of the plumpy girl she seemed to weigh 
in the fine scale of her discrimination. She was neither 
pleased, nor displeased, so far as Star could see. She took 
her in as if she read the whole story of her life without the 
aid of a palmist’s text book, or geanalogical dictionary from 
which to take her cue. 

“So you want to be my daughter’s maid?” asked Mrs. 
Jarney, for that is whom the lady was, the mother of Edith. 

“I had thought I would like to learn,” replied Star, who 
was already feeling at home in the presence of this fine lady. 

“Have you had experience?” 

“None; but I can learn.” 

“How old are you?” 


42 


EDITH AND JOHN 


“Eighteen, past.” 

“You are large for your age.” 

“But I have worked hard — that has made me strong.” 

“You will need a little fixing up — what^s your name?” 

“Miss Barton.” 

“I kn — I mean your given name?” 

“Star.” 

“Have Edith come down,” said Mrs. Jarney to her maid; 
and she told Star to be seated. 

Edith came down in a few moments. She was so radiant 
that Star fairly held her breath. Edith advanced and pre- 
sented her hand to Star, saying: 

“What is your name?” 

“Star Barton.” 

“I kn — that is a fine name,” replied Edith, holding Star’s 
hand, and for the first time she began to feel that there was 
some mystery about her coming here, or else why this kindly 
greeting? “Mama,” she said, still holding Star’s hand and 
turning to her mother, “I shall like her, I know. I shall take 
her to my room and have her redressed. Will you come with 
me? Yes, of course.” 

Edith, who had been very light hearted all that day, 
wheeled gracefully, lifted her skirts, and went up the stairs 
so lightly that she was like a bird of Paradise, so f airily did 
she trip along. Star Barton, in her poverty-stricken clothing, 
followed in such a delirium of amazement that she felt as if 
she were treading the clouds into Heaven itself. 

And thus into a new Heaven she went, with as little 
formality surrounding her going — once she was let into the 
mansion by the ever guardful servants — as is seldom found 
in this world of inequality. 


EDITH AND JOHN 


43 


CHAPTER VI. 

THE TRANSFORMATION OF STAR BARTON. 

To Star Barton, it was like going into a fairyland. Edith 
was the fairy, Star the lowly nymph. Edith was the sparkling 
diamond that gave it its setting. Star was the rough jewel 
come to be recast. 

The rich, velvety, orange-colored rug, with pale pink 
flowers blooming like butterfly eyes peeping at her, was as 
soft as snow to the rough maiden’s touch; only it gave back, 
instead of a chill, an enthralling sensation like the sound of 
a distant harp that beats upon a wayfarer’s ears. The creamy, 
snow-fringed curtains evolved themselves into miniature cas- 
cades of dazzling frost, to her eyes; and gave back, instead 
of a shiver, a lulling peace to her disturbed imagination. The 
gilded furniture, the beautifully crocheted lavender cushions, 
the paintings, the photos of friends, the pink tint of the 
walls, the shining chandeliers, with sparkling globes and 
translucent shades, gave back, instead of a frown, a smile. 

Edith was, on this occasion, the advent of Star Barton 
into her life, an animated piece of pinkness, which gave the 
room its vitality. To Star’s eyes, unused to such things, she 
was an angel without the wings. Her gossimer gown of pink, 
her gold, her diamonds, her fine face, all appealed to the 
poor girl of such lowliness to such an ecstatic degree that 
she was astonished beyond belief. 

It was all so entrancing, so enrapturing, so overpowering 
to her theretofore undemonstrative spirit that she sat down 
and burst into tears. This was the outward sign of her joy 
over her disenthrallment. Poor simple maiden ! To be brought 
from a hovel to this place of glory, so suddenly, was even 
more than her strong nature could endure. The transition 
was too sudden. The climax to the fanciful things she had 
conjured up in the short time she had put into such imagin- 
ings was too real. No pathway had ever been struck out by 
her with such beautiful borderings as this. No, no; not in 
her limited sphere. Simple, uneducated, modest, as she was, 
with a pure soul and a heart that beat for better things, she 
gave way when the door of chance was thrown open for her, 
at last, and poured out her joy in the agony of tears. 


44 


EDITH AND JOHN 


Edith, who had been so radiantly happy, and who had 
formulated such great plans for this girl, ceased in her joyous 
behavior when she saw Star sink into a chair and put her 
soiled handkerchief to her eyes. Edith at once divined the 
cause of Star’s weeping, and knelt down by her side in com- 
miseration. She took both of Star’s rough hands between 
hers, so soft and delicate, and cried herself in the fullness of 
her heart. 

“Do not weep, dear girl; it grieves me so,” she said, look- 
ing up into the blue eyes of her poor benighted sister. 

“Dear, kind lady, I cannot help it,” returned Star, in an 
effort to stop her tears. 

“Come, come, my dear girl, you must prepare yourself to 
be my companion,” said Edith. “Be brave; that is a good 
girl. I shall love you.” 

“Dear lady, I am not fit to be here,” said Star, still 
weeping. “These are all the good clothes I have.” 

“I have new clothing for you, my dear; come, and make 
ready to go down to dinner with me,” said Edith, rising, 
and still holding Star’s hands. 

“Oh, I am so rough, I am afraid I will contaminate this 
place should I remain,” replied Star, hesitatingly. 

“No, no; you must not think of such a thing, my dear 
girl. Cheer up and follow me,” said Edith, as Star arose 
from her chair. Edith kissed her. Star wiped away her 
tears, and smiled. 

Then Edith lead her to her private bath room, which 
glistened so in its whiteness that Star drew back when she 
came to the door of it. This was something that Star had 
never seen before; but she entered, as if it were a place 
to be shunned, and was seated. Edith knelt down, in all 

her finery, and unfastened Star’s coarse shoes, and removed 

them, revealing a foot that was as small as Edith’s, but 
reeking with water. Edith then prepared the bath, and 
gave Star instructions how to use such a modern thing of 
sanitation — all foreign to Star. Then Edith left to fetch 

new garments, when Star should give the signal that her 

ablutions had been performed. In the course of time. Star 
gave the signal as agreed upon, when Edith opened the 
door and entered, with both arms piled to her chin with 
sweet smelling clothing, and a merry smile on her face, and 
a laughing twinkle in her eyes. Modesty caused Star to 


EDITH AND JOHN 


45 


conceal herself behind the door, in the attitude of the statue 
of Venus. 

“My dear girl, do not be alarmed at me; I am as 
harmless as a kitten,” said Edith, as she beheld how natur- 
ally modest Star impelled herself to be, even in the presence 
of her own sex. 

“It is my nature, dear good lady,” replied Star, reaching 
for something to conceal her person. 

“In deference to your modesty, dear, I shall retire, if 
it is your wish,” said Edith, laughing, as she put down her 
bundle of clothing. 

“Just for a moment, if you please, kind lady,” said Star. 

So Edith sidled out of the room without looking around 
at her protege, while Star pulled on her unmentionables. 
After which she called Edith to assist in the furtherance 
of her dressing in some of the new things she was there- 
after to be seen in. 

“These must have been made for me,” said Star, as one 
article after another was adjusted to her form, seeing that 
they all fit so well and so charmingly. 

“They were,” said Edith, buttoning up the back of 
Star’s dress, an act she had never done before, being as she 
always had a maid for that performance. 

“Made for me?” replied Star, with some surprise. 

“Yes, you, my dear girl.” 

“By whose orders?” 

“Mine.” 

“I don’t understand,” said Star, still more surprised. 

“Didn’t you know you were to come here?” 

“Why, no; I thought I came by chance!” 

“You apparently did.” 

“I wonder who had that much interest in me?” asked 
Star, for the first time realizing that she had not been so 
altogether overlooked as she imagined she had been. 

“I had — I have.” 

“How? Tell me, dear lady.” 

“It is a long story, dear girl, and I will tell it you some 
other time. Dinner is about ready. You must go down with 
me. Put your hair up quickly, so we will not keep them 
waiting. Oh, let me help twist it round for you! How do 
you do it? I will learn some day, perhaps. Yes, this way. 


46 


EDITH AND JOHN 


Now, look in the mirror. Isn’t that better? It certainly is. 
You are charming. Why, I didn’t know you were so sweet. 
Let me kiss you now to bind our companionship hencefor- 
ward. There!” 

This from Edith while she was acting as maid, in her 
finery, for this poor girl, who but an hour before exhibited 
all the characteristics of having been pulled from the ruins of 
Peter Dieman’s junk heap. Indeed, such a transformation 
had Star gone through in that short hour that the fair 
Edith herself hardly recognized her as the same untidy being 
who had come to her boudoir for what she knew not. 

‘‘It is all so strange, dear lady, that it seems more like 
a dream,” said Star, now with her cheeks aflame from the 
bathing and the attending excitement of the ordeal through 
which she had passed. 

“Oh. stranger things than what has already happened 
you may come to pass,” replied Edith, as she turned to take 
the lead down the stairs. 

“What about my old clothes?” asked Star. 

“I will send the washer- woman after them,” answered 
Edith. 

“I shall want to send them home to mother.” 

“Never mind them,” returned Edith; “your mother will 
be provided for.” 

“Oh,” said Star, mystified. 

Star Barton was now a fit subject of envy for any young 
lady, even with less aspiring thoughts than she. Edith might 
have been jealous of Star’s good looks, had it been her 
nature; but Edith was not so inclined, in this instance. The 
fact is, that Edith was so pleased over her handiwork, in 
rejuvenating this fair damsel, that she bubbled over with 
happiness. Star was now clothed as became a lady of rank, 
except that sparkling jewelry was lacking as yet. Star’s 
dress was almost a counterpart of Edith’s, and set her off 
to advantage, in a comparative sense. Her mild blue eyes, 
pink cheeks, noble white forehead, dark wavy hair, caused 
the dining room attendants to stare when she came down 
the great staircase and passed under the brilliant lights into 
the presence of the mighty man of wealth and his bouncing 
little wife. Hah, even those two august personages held 
their breath for a moment when they cast their searching, 
but kindly, eyes upon her. 


EDITH AND JOHN 


47 


‘ ‘ This is Miss Barton, papa, ’ ’ said Edith, as she came up to 
him with her fair charge and presented her, ‘‘and my 
mamma, whom you have met before.” 

Both parents received her so graciously that Star was 
dumfounded, and exceedingly awkward in returning their 
salutation. 

“Miss Barton, I am happy to make your acquaintance,” 
said Mr. Jarney. “I assure you that you are welcome.” 

Neither Mr. Jarney ’s pride, nor vanity, nor money, pre- 
vented him from taking kindly to this young maiden, for 
he knew already whom she was, and often longed for the 
time to help her, although at present he must act with some 
circumspection toward her for reasons that he did not wish 
her to know. And Mrs. Jarney, for the same reasons, had 
to conduct herself accordingly, and meet Star on the basis 
of a stranger to the name of Jarney. So keeping her in 
ignorance of her true relationship to them, they hoped to 
make a lady of her, and do all that generous hearts could 
do, under cover of being Edith’s companion, to help her to a 
brighter life. 

Star needed some instruction in the art of being a grand 
lady, which function she never conceived in acting when she 
humbly presented herself, so recently, at the back door of 
this mansion. The transposition of her habitat was so ex- 
peditiously executed that she saw in it something of the 
miraculous. In nowise, on so short a notice, could she be 
expected to conform to the spirit and the letter of the laws 
of usage in this undiscovered country to which she had been 
unceremoniously transported. So, recognizing these defic- 
iencies in Star, Edith took it upon herself to be her teacher, 
and took a seat by her side at the table. But Star was not 
so uncouth that she was wholly deficient in quickness of 
perception, and constantly kept on guard ; noting every 
move that the others made ; noting every move of Edith 
with sly glances; noting every action of those opposite, so 
that she should not, if possible to prevent it, make herself 
ridiculous in her first appearance on the stage of grandeur. 
Thus, wtih much carefulness on her part, in this respect at 
least, she got through the dinner fairly well, considering the 
great length of time — one hour — they took in mastica- 
tion, conversation, deglutition. Finally, when it was all 
over with, she arose, with the rest of them, with a gladsome 
thanksgiving beating in her breast. 


48 


EDITH AND JOHN 


But the worst ordeal yet, for her, was to come. The 
entire family adjourned to the parlor, where Edith sat down 
to the piano, and ran her hands across the key-board so 
rapidly and with such a wild harmonious result that Star 
almost had the ague. Then Edith sang a song — a lullaby 
— so appealing in its sentimentality that Star was lost in 
oblivion for a time. She let her agitated thoughts wander, 
unrestrained, back to her own haunts — to the misery, want 
and woe she had left behind; to the crooning mother at- 
tempting a similar lullaby; to her dark old face, to her 
tearless eyes, to her faded cheeks ; to her hopeless life, 
in her sad, dull, stupid, sullen contentment in her wretched- 
ness. Verily, what mortal, with a heart, could withstand 
the contrasts as were revealed to this tender maiden? No 
one could. She broke down under it, like the strongest of 
us break down, sometimes, under the strain of sentiment 
when dear ones are under the ban of misfortune. The 
sweet voice of Edith was to her an angelic orison to heaven 
for a lost soul; and who knows but that the angels then 
were pleading with the Great Father to send His benediction 
down upon that other home and save it from further dam- 
nation. 

Without being the least concerned as to who might take 
notice, or without any effort to control herself in the com- 
pany of those grand people. Star let her emotions have full 
swing, and the tears flowed down her cheeks as freely as 
they flowed when her father beat her as a child. The dainty 
handkerchief that she now carried was soon soaked with 
the lachrymose outburst of her misery. Her eyes became 
red, her cheeks paled, and her hair, which had not been put 
up by trained hands, fell down over her shoulders. Despair! 
despair! despair! 

Edith played on, and sang, wholly unconscious of Starts 
sad moments. But her mother, happening to look Star’s way, 
noticed her despairing plight, and went to her side with a 
consoling smile and a sympathetic word. When Edith had 
finished playing, she wheeled about on her seat, with beam- 
ing face, to receive the plaudits of her auditors ; but a mourn- 
ful silence greeted her. Her smiling face calmed to a 
serious tone when she saw her friends standing about Star in 
all manner of comforting attitudes. Then Edith, grasping 
the situation at once, glided to her side, and, kneeling down, 


EDITH AND JOHN 


49 


took Star’s two red hands in hers, and cried. Dear Edith, 
so good of you. Then she assisted Star to rise, placed her 
arm around her waist, and conducted her up the great white 
stairs, like a guiding angel going into Heaven with a new 
soul. 


CHAPTER VII. 

JOHN WINTHROPE PROMOTED. 

The day following the accidental meeting of Miss Jarney 
and Mr. Winthrope, under such wretched meteorological cir- 
cumstances, was spent by the latter in the office of Jarney 
& Lowman as usual; with this exception, that the young man 
went about his duties as assistant bookkeeper with more 
alertness and decisiveness of purpose, at the same time pon- 
dering over another chance meeting of the morning. 

He arose an hour earlier than had been his wont, sleep 
having been dispelled by the train of thoughts that the 
awakening moments had set in motion in his brain. Not- 
withstanding that the inclement weather held almost at the 
same steady pace as on the night previous, after dressing 
himself, he went out, with the broken umbrella over him, 
into the streets to wander aimlessly about; observing, as he 
did so, the mad rush of the people; or taking a percursory 
view of the store windows; or standing in the shelter of a 
door; or beneath an awning, looking idly at the crowd, ever 
on the go. 

He wended down Fourth avenue to Smithfield, up to 
Fifth, down to Wood, down to Second; halting now and 
then, in his sauntering, to gaze in the windows, being inter- 
ested in nothing in particular any more than to have time 
go as rapidly as it would go, so that he could get down 
to the absorbing task of putting down and reckoning up 
columns of figures in his books. So he wended on in this 
irresponsible manner till half way up the block on Second 
avenue, when he was compelled, by a sudden outburst of the 
elements in pumping down more water than he could contend 
with in the flabby condition of his umbrella, to take shelter 
in a doorway that was sunk deeply into a wall of brick, 
which was grimly garnished by the wear of years. 


50 


EDITH AND JOHN 


He had let down the umbrella, and was scanning it, with 
perhaps some vagrant thoughts as to its former user ; of 
the fine quality of the material, and of the “E. J. engraved 
on the gold handle; when the door at his back opened noise- 
lessly, and was closed just as noiselessly, and quickly. A 
young man stepped to his side with a rain shade of his own 
in his hands. He was of medium height, dressed fairly well 
in a hand-me-down, and sported a flaming red necktie. His 
face was neither handsome, nor ugly, but there was in it 
signs of recent dissipation. 

^‘A beastly morning,’^ he remarked, as he began turning 
up his collar and buttoning up his coat. 

‘‘A very bad morning,’’ answered John, not with the 
view of striking up a conversation, but simply to be civil to 
a stranger. 

Couldn’t be worse in h — !” said the stranger, as if talk- 
ing to himself. 

‘‘No; I suppose there is not much water falling in that 
region,” said John, looking up at the cork-screws of water 
twisting their way down, and breaking into pieces on the 
hard pavement. 

‘ ‘ I reckon not, ’ ’ responded the stranger, for the first 
time turning his dull gray eyes upon John. As John made 
no further response, the stranger continued: “What are you 
doing in here? Looking for a place like this, eh?” 

“I merely stopped to await a moderation of the rain,” 
answered John, innocently, knowing nothing of the character 
of the place into which the door led. 

“Then you are not looking for a joint like this?” said the 
stranger, eyeing John. 

“What kind of a place is it?” asked John. 

“Don’t you know?” 

“Have not the least idea.” 

“You must be from the country?” 

“Not very long since I came from that indefinite place.” 

“Come around some evening and ask for Mike Barton, 
and you’ll find out,” said the stranger, in a whisper, sizing 
John up as a likely victim for such an institution. 

“I never go to a place unless I know of its character 
first,” returned John. 

“Hoh, you don’t! I pity such greenhorns as you,” flip- 
pantly retorted the stranger. 


EDITH AND JOHN 


51 


“You scamp!” exclaimed John, hotly, and his dark blue 
eyes snapped with anger, as the insolent chappy cringed be- 
neath him. “Don’t leer at me, or I will wipe up the streets 
with you.” 

“Now, my dear sir,” replied the stranger, seeing his 
mistaken opinion of the man he had met ; ‘ ‘ don ’t get angry ; 
I feel a little blue this morning.” 

“You should be more courteous, young man, whatever the 
time, or place, or your state of mind,” answered John. 

“I’ll heed your advice hereafter,” said the stranger, with 
a sarcastic smile. “But take the number and come around 
sometime, when I’ll make amends for this insult, if you 
choose still to take it as such.” 

“Oh, never mind about that; but what did you say your 
name was?” 

“Mike Barton. Your name?” 

“John Winthrope.” 

“Do you work?” asked Mike. 

“I do.” 

“Where?” 

“At Jarney & Bowman’s.” 

“Jarney & Bowman! Jarney! Jarney! Hah! Well, good 
morning,” saying this rapidly, Mike Barton stepped to the 
wet pavement, hugged the walls as he went along, and dis- 
appeared directly. 

John Winthrope then resorted to a cheap restaurant. 
After eating a hearty breakfast of bacon and eggs and 
coffee, he, having plenty of time yet to spare, mozied out 
into the elemental downpour, and sauntered to his office. 
He arrived there just in time to see the doors flung open 
to let in an army of clerical men and women for the day. 
His shoes being damp, he exchanged them for a pair of 
slippers, a supply of which aided in cumbering up a rubbish 
room in the building. In selecting a pair, through the 
scramble with the others, he was unfortunate enough to get 
a size too small. Thus he was caused no little pain in his 
big toes during the rest of the day, which detracted his 
attention a great deal from his work. 

It was a busy day in the office of Jarney & Bowman, by 
reason of the approaching end of the fiscal month; and he 
was therefore kept busy, sparing not a moment from his 
accounting for casual conversation with his associates, or 
for anything for that matter. 


52 


EDITH AND JOHN 


In about the middle of the afternoon, while John was 
very industriously setting down, and adding up, and balanc- 
ing and counter balancing books in his department, Miram 
Monroe, a thin, sleek, middle-aged gentleman, with the polish 
of a Chesterfield about him, came up to him as silently as a 
mouse steals up to a trap, and tapped him on the shoulder. 

Now, Mr. Monroe was the general manager of the office, 
and went about his duties in such a sly unsentimental manner 
that no one could ever unravel his motives when he ap- 
proached an individual of the staff. There was never any 
change in his expression, nor in the hump of his shoulders, 
nor in his step, nor in his actions whenever he took upon 
himself his bestowed privilege of approaching a subordinate, 
either to inspect his work, or to tell him gently that his 
services were not wanted longer. He was always the same 
in handing out his authority. He never laughed. He never 
smiled. He never winked. He never talked, except in a low 
voice, and then in an unrhythmic monotone. 

So, knowing the peculiar character of this gentleman, John 
had a severe shock of surprise when he turned at the tap on 
his shoulder and beheld the light brown eyes of Mr. Monroe 
shedding their unintelligible lustre on him. 

“Mr. Winthrope,” said Monroe, so smoothly, so gently, 
so mildly, so blandly, that John felt a faintness steal all 
over him, “will you have the kindness to step into the private 
office of Mr. Jarney?” 

Ho! John had never been in that office before. What 
did it all mean? Was the head of the firm to dismiss him? 
For what? It was, indeed, a very deep mystery to John. 

John obeyed the summons, and followed his conductor 
through many rooms, with a fear possessing him all the 
while that he was to be summarily dealt with for some un- 
accountable transaction with which he had been charged. 
He was ushered to the inner sanctum of the head of the 
firm. He saw Hiram Jarney sitting in a deep mahogany 
chair before a big mahogany roll-top desk that stood in the 
center of one side of the room. On the floor he saw a green 
Turkish rug, and on the green-tinted walls he saw, displayed 
appropriately and proportionately about, steel engravings of 
Washington, Lincoln, Garfield, McKinley and Roosevelt, the 
latter being directly above Mr. Jarney ^s desk, from which 
high position that bespectacled president and mighty nimrod 


EDITH AND JOHN 


53 


continually looked down upon him, as if he were the chief’s 
main idol of modern strenuousness. 

John halted a moment, on seeing all these things, stepped 
lightly, with his pinching slippers causing him to wince, 
into the deep velvet, as if he were treading on a field of 
the most delicate violets. He took in the room at a glance. 
He had never seen the head of the firm but once before. This 
was the first time he had come face to face with the great 
captain of industry. Although he was uncertain of the wishes 
of Mr. Jarney to have him in his presence, he did not quail 
at advancing to be presented; but he trembled unnecessarily 
over the fear that he might be discharged, and thrown out 
of a position, for what, as he thought, as the affair of the 
night before. 

‘‘Mr. Jarney, this is Mr. Winthrope,” said Monroe, almost 
in a whisper, and he turned and left the room, going as 
quickly as a fleeing ghost. 

“Glad to meet you, Mr. Winthrope,” said Mr. Jarney, 
rising and presenting a warm hand. Mr. Jarney shook the 
extended hand of John’s with such vigor that John came 
near losing his tight-fitting slippers and his balance in the 
pulling force of Mr. Jarney ’s grip. 

“I am glad to know you,” returned John, recovering his 
surprise over Mr. Jarney ’s graciousness. 

“Sit down,” said Mr. Jarney, releasing John’s hand, and 
motioning him to a deep mahogany chair by his desk. John 
sat down. 

Without removing his eyes from John, Mr. Jarney drew 
a box of cigars out of the depths of his desk, and, opening 
it, extended it toward him. 

“Have a smoke?” he said, pleasantly. 

“Thank you; I do not smoke,” answered John, con- 
fusedly. 

“Good!” exclaimed Mr. Jarney, as he flapped the lid on 
the box. As he laid it away he still kept his eyes on his 
visitor. 

John was so uncomfortable in the big chair, and the 
slippers were pinching him so unmercifully, that he was very 
miserable. When he leaned backward, he seemed to have 
fallen to the floor on his back; when he sat up straight, his 
back pained him; when he leaned forward, he felt awkward. 

“Young man,” said Mr. Jarney, easily, lighting a cigar, 


54 


EDITH AND JOHN 


and still keeping his keen eyes on John, “this is an unusual 
procedure on my part, you will no doubt think.” 

“I don’t know,” gasped John. 

“Well,” continued Mr. Jarney, “I have summoned you 
here for a quiet chat.” 

John wondered what this great man could find in him to 
talk about. 

“Yes, I want to talk with you,” he continued. “You are 
a good young man, I understand. How old are you?” 

‘ ‘ Twenty-two. ’ ’ 

“Hah! twenty-two; the proper age. Where is your home?” 

“In the city, at present.” 

“I mean, where were you raised?” 

“In the mountains of Fayette county.” 

“Hah! just so. Another point in your favor. Now, then, 
do you have any money?” 

“None; only what I earn here.” 

“How much is that?” 

“Fifteen per week.” 

“Hah! what do you do with your money above your 
keep?” 

“Send it to my parents.” 

“Hah! another point in your favor. With whom do you 
associate?” 

“Have not been in the city long enough to acquire inti- 
mate associates.” 

“Hah! four good points in your favor. What is the ex- 
tent of your education?” 

“I attended the common schools of my district, then 
learned bookkeeping and stenography at a business college.” 

“Hah! five good points in your favor. That is enough. 
Would you like to be my private secretary?” 

John was calm under the ordeal of this examination into 
his character and habits and ability, answering the questions 
as deliberately as if he were before a court-witness examiner. 
But when the last question was put to him he became unduly 
nervous, as is so often true of young men of sterling worth 
and latent capabilities. The question came so unexpectedly 
and from such an unexpected source that he could not, at 
first, clearly comprehend its meaning; nor could he frame 
an appropriate answer on such a momentous proposition. 
While he was ambitious and desirous of rising to an emi- 


EDITH AND JOHN 


nence in the world of business that would place him where 
he thought he deserved, he, at the same time, knew his 
failings, if any he had worth mentioning. 

“Mr. Jarney,^’ said John, finally, after studying for a 
few moments; “this has been unsought on my part, and is 
a great surprise. If I deserve such a promotion, so soon 
after coming into your service, I assure you I am thankful, 
and shall endeavor to make good.” 

“I take it, then, that you have accepted?” said Mr. Jarney. 

“I have.” 

“Mr. Winthrope, your duties will be to look after my 
private affairs. You will have your office in the adjoining 
room. You are to be under no one’s orders but my own. 
Your salary will be increased to twenty-five per week, and 
if you prove satisfactory, after a fair trial, which I believe 
you will, you will be compensated according as I value your 
services. Be at your desk at ten a. m. tomorrow. Now you 
may go.” 

John arose; Mr. Jarney arose. They stood a moment 
looking at each other. Mr. Jarney then laid his hand upon 
John’s shoulder, and said: 

“Mr. Winthrope, I believe you will make good.” 

“I will be faithful to any trust imposed in me,” returned 
John. 

Together they walked across the room. Mr. Jarney opened 
the door, as he said, “Good bye.” John stepped out. The 
door closed behind him. John stopped a few seconds before 
that blasted flower, Monroe, who gazed at him without the 
least intimation of what was going on in his apparently 
inactive brain. John gazed at Monroe as if he meant to 
inquire the reason for his unimaginative stare, for he thought 
he wanted to ask a question. John stood waiting for it to 
issue forth from his thin lips; but, as none came, he went 
out through the labyrinth of offices, and to his desk, where 
he resumed his pen and figuring as if nothing in the world 
had come up to alter his preconceived routine of existence — 
except the pinching slippers, which he soon discarded. 

At the quitting hour, Monroe, as empty as ever in his 
stare, came to him and whispered: 

“He has told me of your promotion.” 

“Yes,” answered John, without looking up. 

“Your desk will be ready at ten.” 


56 


EDITH AND JOHN 


“Yes, I have been instructed.” 

“Yes,” returned Monroe; and he walked away, with the 
same mouse-like tread he always assumed among the main 
office force. 

That evening, in his dingy little room, John meditated a 
long time over this extraordinary turn in his wheel of fate. 
He could attribute it to no other cause than the incident of 
the night before. What other reason had Mr. Jarney for 
selecting him, he thought, for this important post, when 
there were above him in the office men with more experience, 
more capabilities, more knowledge of the world of business 
than he? Could it be, he thought, that Mr. Jarney was 
repaying him for his gentlemanly actions toward his daugh- 
ter? Could it be? Mr. Jarney gave no reason for his pro- 
motion, nor intimation as to why he favored him above so 
many others who had been in his service so much the longer 
time. John never thought that such men as Mr. Jarney 
give no reason for their actions, except, perhaps, on graver 
questions. 

If it was not for that affair, then what was it? But why 
should Mr. Jarney favor him for that? He had given Edith 
Jarney a great amount of compound consideration. He 
thought of their chance meeting from the viewpoint of one, 
who, knowing fully his lowly station, could not, by any 
unheard of reasoning, ever hope to meet her on friendly or 
intimate terms. He might chance upon her, of course, some- 
time, somewhere; but that was, while possible, hardly likely 
— unless it should be in her father’s office. But recalling 
that he had never seen her there, nor ever heard her name 
spoken in the office no more than if she did not exist, he 
was still less inclined to a faint hope. Such young ladies 
were not the topic of confabulating remarks among the em- 
ployes of such great fathers as hers. 

Still, with all his meditating, deliberating, weighing this 
and balancing that, he could not get her out of his bucolic 
head. Ah, he thought, he would fill a new position on the 
morrow! Perhaps she would come to her father’s office, 
sometime; not an improbable thing for Edith to do. Then, 
in that event, he could only hope to bow to her as she should 
switch her way in or out past him, with a toss of her dig- 
nified head; or a contemptuous look out of her bright blue 
eyes; or, more like it, to give him a blank stare for his pre- 
sumptuous ogling. 


EDITH AND JOHN 


57 


Would Edith Jarney do this? Dear Edith, it is hoped that 
John has a wrong impression of you. 

So, after thinking on all these things, John could, in 
nowise, bring himself to believe, or ever to expect that he 
would receive any recognition from Edith. Therefore, with 
such extraneous ideas excluded from his thoughts, he con- 
cluded that day-dreams were useless; and with all the as- 
sumed wisdom that was stored up in his soul, he deliberately 
cast her aside as beyond his attainment. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

PETER DIEMAN RECEIVES VISITORS. 

Peter Dieman, since he had reached his present state of 
affluence and influence, did not condescend to wait on cus- 
tomers. He was now above that menial branch of his trade. 
He seldom went into his store, as a clerk; but he went occa- 
sionally to settle some dispute, of one kind or another, that 
Eli Jerey was continually involved in with some one of the 
many people, who, for one reason or another, visited The Die. 

Eli, in this period of his trammeled existence, was a com- 
bative sort of an individual — not through a natural dis- 
position in that direction, but mainly by force of circum- 
stances. Being a creature who was impelled by any line 
of action by the urgent necessity of earning his bread and 
butter, he became a willing tool in the hands of Peter for 
the furtherance of that man’s business, or any other of the 
transactions with which he might be connected. Eli, there- 
fore, was a good servant more through a sense of duty, 
than through any reason he would bring to bear in applying 
himself. He might be classed with one of those trusties 
who is purblind to any one else’s good, save that of his 
employer. Hence, he loved Peter, not for any attraction that 
the personality of the man had for him, but simply for the 
job that he fllled. 

Peter Dieman had that way about him that causes men 
of any rank, almost, to bow down to force and power and 
money. While he was revolting in his general aspect, as a 
man socially, he was certainly a genius when it came to 


58 


EDITH AND JOHN 


manipulating the “ropes” that so often lead men and women 
into combinations against society’s welfare. Even in the 
building up of an established business in the marts of other 
men, he exhibited a wonderful gift of sagacity in organiza- 
tion, and in a knack of accumulating wealth, so far as his 
endeavors went in the one particular line that to the world 
at large he was supposed to follow. 

One day Peter was sitting at his place of espial, intently 
concerned for the time with the one predominating thought 
as to whether his spider-like clerk, Eli Jerey, could accom- 
modate all the customers he saw in waiting, before any of 
them could get away without leaving a few shekels behind. 
As he looked, he rubbed his hands nervously, whimsically, 
naturally, as was his habit; then he squinted up one of his 
piggish eyes, and scowled menacingly. The reason for this 
contorting facial expression and revolutionary exhibition 
with his hands was that he noted his clerk suddenly throw 
up his left arm to a guarding position, rear backward, clinch 
his fists, look daggers out of his cat-like eyes, and then lunge 
forward, with the force of a battering ram going into execu- 
tion. He also saw two other long arms whirling through 
the air like a Dutch wind-wheel in motion, saw a head duck, 
saw the bodies of two men writhe and squirm, and then saw 
them fall together on a bundle of dirty coiled-up ropes. 
Seeing all which, he put down his pipe, put on his black 
cap, and waddled out with the intensity of the furies spread 
over the wide expanse of his red and rounded visage. 

“Wow!” he roared like an exploding blunderbuss. “What 
in God Almighty’s name be you doing, Eli?” 

Eli did not look up to respond to the query. He could 
not look up had he wanted to. The stranger, with whom 
Eli was in combat, had him gripped so tightly around the 
neck with one arm, that Eli could neither hurt his antag- 
onist, nor get hurt himself. All that Eli could do was to 
breathe heavily, strike out at random with his one free hand, 
hitting the ropes, the fioor, a bench leg, and many other 
things about him. Meanwhile the stranger seemed to lie 
contentedly on his back surveying the upper regions of the 
interior of the junkery. 

When Peter came up to the combatants, he stopped, with 
his hands upon his hips, and his arms akimbo, sized up the 
situation in an instant, and then seized Eli by the scruff 


EDITH AND JOHN 


59 


of the neck, and raised him to the floor, with his victim 
still clinging to him in a very loving-like embrace, and with 
Eli still beating the air at random with his free hand. 

“Loosen yourself, brute!” squealed Peter to the stranger. 
“Loosen yourself, I say!” he shouted. 

But the stranger paid no heed to him. Whereupon, Peter, 
using his fat hands as an entering wedge, heaved away with 
mighty force, to left and to right, and the twain came 
asunder. The stranger now stood back, with tousled head 
and frightful mien, glaring savagely at Eli; while Eli looked 
the same in the matter of dishevelment, his scanty face 
showed little more of the baser passions than would a paving 
stone. 

“You rascals! What’s all this about?” demanded Peter, 
directing his eyes on Eli. 

“Nothing,” piped Eli. 

Then turning to the stranger, who was a young man, 
Peter said, stentoriously : “Clear out at once!” 

The stranger took up his fallen hat, turned malevolently 
upon Peter, and hissed: “All right, you hog! You will pay 
dear for such an insult!” He turned toward Eli. “You 
scoundrel,” he shouted, “your master keeps you here to 
insult people — ” but he did not flnish the sentence, so wroth 
was he in his anger. 

Peter rubbed his hands so rapidly that it would be a wild 
guess to say whether he was doing it in jest or in earnest. 
The stranger proceeded toward the front door. 

“Wait!” exclaimed Peter, as the stranger was about to 
make his exit. 

The young man turned about, very deliberately, in his 
tracks, leered at Peter as if he would again hurl a terrible 
threat at him, but he said nothing. 

“Mike Barton,” commanded Peter, for that is whom the 
young man proved to be, “come to my office.” 

Whereupon, Peter led the way, and Mike Barton followed 
him to the little black office. Peter removed his cap, re- 
sumed his pipe, and sat down, wheezing like an asthmatic 
pup, near his place of espionage; and he looked curiously at 
Mike, who had taken a seat unbidden. 

“What was the trouble, Mike?” he asked. 

“I simply sought to pass him to get to your office, when 
he confronted me with the insulting remark, ‘No pimps al- 


60 


EDITH AND JOHN 


lowed in there — your office — without permission of the 
boss.’ ” 

“He’s a good clerk, Mike; he is; and he serves me well.” 

“Too well, Mr. Dieman, for your safety.” 

“Ha, ha! Well, he has my instructions, and you know the 
password to this office.” 

“I do, sir; but I resent the insult.” 

“All right, my boy, it’s over with now; Eli is a good 
one for me, you know.” 

“I reckon he is,” returned Mike. 

“Now, what can I do for you?” asked Peter, eyeing Mike 
with one of his singularly inquisitorial stares, which gave 
Mike a spell of the fidgets. 

“I was sent here by the keeper of our place to know the 
outlook for a continuance of police protection,” he replied 
without any circumlocution about saying what he had in 
mind. 

“Eh!” Peter ejaculated. 

“Yes; we want to know — or they want to know. What’s 
the prospects?” 

“Eh?” 

“What’s the prospects? is my question,” said Mike, 
surlily, put out by the evasiveness of Peter. 

“Hey?” 

“You have my question.” 

“I have.” 

“Then answer me.” 

“How much more is it worth?” 

“You and your gang are getting enough already,” re- 
torted Mike. 

“Don’t get gay, young man; don’t get gay,” said Peter, 
raising his furzy eyebrows with surprise. “You people are 
in business — I’m in business — we’re all in business — for 
money. ’ ’ 

“Yes, Peter, yes; all in business — all in business — a 
nasty thing it is, sir, this grafting business,” returned Mike. 
“But my employers are getting tired of having their legs 
pulled so often. All the profits already go to your bunch — 
how can they pay any more?” 

“Eh, young man, you are talking a little too gay — a little 
too gay, for one of your experience; hey?” 

“Well, it’s the truth,” answered Mike. 


EDITH AND JOHN 


61 


“What have I to do with that? Yes, I, sir; I? Answer 
me that question?” asked Peter, with a little more anima- 
tion than he had previously shown in the conversation. 

“A whole d — lot!” exclaimed Mike. 

“Don’t! don’t! don’t! boy! Don’t cause me to throw 
you out!” roared Peter, now looking out his peephole. 

“I am not a bit afraid of you — no more than I am of 
that door knob,” answered Mike, haughtily. 

“Maybe not, Mike; but you fellows must be reasonable,” 
said Peter, less uproariously than before. 

“So must you fellows,” remarked Mike, placidly, as he 
indolently shifted one leg over the other and bent forward. 

Peter pursued his quest no further for a few moments, 
being interested in Eli in the outer room. He drummed with 
his fingers on one arm of the chair, then rubbed his fat 
hands together. Peter then turned to Mike, as Mike said: 

“I want to know, Mr. Dieman, what your gang intends 
doing ? ’ ’ 

“One thousand more per month,” was Peter’s reply. 

“That means two thousand for our house, does it?” 

“If I figure right, it does.” 

“Then, you can go — to — h !” returned Mike, rising 

to depart. 

“Five hundred will do this time,” said Peter, now feeling 
inclined to be decent in such a deal. 

“Go to — ” responded Mike, looking back at Peter over 
his shoulder, as he turned to go out the door. 

“Set down, boy, and be respectable,” said Peter in a 
mollifying tone. “Anything new, Mike?” 

“Nothing unusual, only I hear that my sister left home 
today for a finer home in the East End.” 

“Did sh-e-e?” asked Peter, with a comical leer out of his 
right eye, which he turned upon Mike, as if the information 
was of vast importance to him. 

“She did,” answered Mike. 

“Good for her!” said Peter, musingly. “When did you 
learn this?” 

“This afternoon, when I was home for the first time since 
I got my new job, over three months now,” replied Mike, look- 
ing down at the floor. “I meant to take her out of that 
place myself to a finer one, where life is worth while ; but she 
eluded me — if that is the right word, eh.” 


62 


EDITH AND JOHN 


“Did you intend taking her to the place where you 
work?” asked Peter. 

“I did.” 

“I have always had such a notion of you in my head,” 
said Peter, squinting at Mike. 

“You had? How did you know?” shouted Mike. 

“Guessed as much,” said Peter, rubbing and looking Mike 
squarely in the face. 

“You old reprobate!” exclaimed Mike, hotly. 

“Be careful, boy; be careful. I am no fool,” admonished 
Peter, unruffled as yet, in outward signs. “What other 
news?” 

“I understand my sister’s at Hiram Jarney’s home,” said 
Mike. 

“Yes,” responded Peter. 

“A strange coincidence,” mused Mike. “I met a young 
man named Winthrope this morning, who works in Jarney’s 
office.” 

“Good or bad subject?” asked Peter. 

“Bad — I judge from his answers.” 

“That’s good,” said Peter, rubbing his hands vigorously. 

“I don’t understand,” said Mike. 

“You don’t?” quizzed Peter, drawling out the words slur- 
ingly. 

“No, d if I do!” 

“Well, then go about your miserable business and quit 
bothering me,” commanded Peter. 

“You haven’t answered me yet about police protection,” 
said Mike. 

“Oh, go away; they’ll not bother you,” replied Peter, 
impatiently, shaking his head as if he were shaking the 
words out of his mouth. 

“Have I your word for it?” demanded Mike. 

“That’s all I have to say. Go!” snorted the now exas- 
perated Peter, resuming his habitual work of spying. 

Mike retreated, like a man who is cornered by a bear 
in his den, going out at the opportune time. Passing through 
the store he beheld Eli looking as dumbly as a lamppost at 
him. Mike skinned his eyes, as it were, lest Eli should 
pounce upon him again, and complete the operation of a 
sound threshing. But Mike got safely to the outer door, and 
was about to go out, when he turned and hurled back at 
Eli, shaking his fist: 


EDITH AND JOHN 


63 


'‘I’ll fix you, you hireling!” 

Eli, becoming riled at the threatening taunt, made a 
rush for Mike, like a terrier after a scampering cat; but 
Mike soon disappeared around a corner, leaving Eli standing 
in the door shaking his fist at the vanishing figure, who did 
not cease running till he got two or three blocks away, so 
fearful was he of Eli. 

As Eli turned to re-enter the shop, he ran counter to a 
man — a tall, slouchy fellow with a stubby moustache, short 
hair, red nose, round face, brown eyes, white complexioned 
— who had entered unobserved, while Eli was sending his 
sworn enemy threateningly away. The. man sallied lazily 
through the alleys of junk, paying no heed whatever to 
the ubiquitous clerk, who was dogging his heels at every 
turn for an opportunity to inquire about his wants. Several 
times Eli was sure the man was about to stop and make 
reply to his questions; but in this he was sorely disappointed. 
For the man proceeded till he came to the door of Peter’s 
cubby-hole, and was in the act of entering it, when, to his 
astonishment, he found Eli wraithing up before him in the 
doorway. The man hesitated for an instant, gave Eli a 
contemptuous smile, then, with a quick sweep of his strong 
arm, thrust him aside, as if he w^ere only a part of The Die’s 
junk that had got into his way. Eli, of course, was taken 
off his feet, both figuratively and literally, and went sprawl- 
ing in a heap in a corner, on a pile of rubbish. 

‘ ‘ Come in ! ” shouted Peter to the man, with no thought 
as to what harm might have befallen the dutiful Eli, who, 
on catching his master’s voice as meaning an intimate ac- 
quaintanceship with the man, gathered himself together, and 
took up his burdens still feeling unsquelched as a faithful 
servant. 

“Well, Jim,” said Peter to the man, when he seated 
himself, “how’s things going these days?” 

“Well enough,” answered Jim Dalis. 

“Ford & Ford got the contract?” said Peter, without a 
semblance of his gladness over the matter in his own face. 

“Yes; they got it; but hell’ll be to pay some day for that 
dirty piece of work,” answered Jim Dalis, moodily. 

“That’s a hard old place to satisfy,” remarked Peter. 

“Can’t be worse than the grafters of this old city,” re- 
turned Dalis. 


64 


EDITH AND JOHN 


“Don’t be pessimistic, Jim.” 

“Don’t like to be; but, I say, there’ll be a reckoning up 
some day, I suppose, when the people once wake up, and find 
out what is going on in this old town.” 

“Ah, the people; the dear people,” answered Peter; 
“they don’t know enough to eat mud pies.” 

“Why, haven’t they been fed on them a long time, eh, 
Peter? Their stomachs will revolt at the mess sometime, 
Peter; then, look out!” 

“Have no fear, Jim; have no fear; they’ll never catch 
us,” replied Peter, with confidence in his secureness behind 
the throne of graft. 

“But, nevertheless, it is rotten business, Peter; rotten 
business, and I am tired of playing the game,” said Dalis. 

“Oh, I’m not; I’ll play it till I die,” returned Peter, with 
a bravado air. 

“You can afford to, Peter; it’s been a gold mine to you 
and your backers. But to me? Look at me! Nothing is 
all I get — nothing but a pittance.” 

“You are paid well, Jim,” said Peter, severely. 

“Paid well; yes; but it takes it all to keep those below 
me in line.” 

“Well, what more do you want, Jim?” 

“Nothing — I’m quitting the business.” 

“Ho! you are? You can’t quit, Jim; you can’t. If you 
do, what’ll become of the ring?” asked Peter, now for the 
first time bringing his reasoning faculties into play in con- 
nection with such a probable event. 

“Bust, I suppose,” replied Dalis. 

“Never!” exclaimed Peter. 

“I am going to quit, I tell you, Peter.” 

“How much do you want to go away from here?” asked 
Peter, rubbing and squinting. 

“Ten thousand,” replied Jim Dalis, slowly. 

“You are cheap,” said Peter. “Come around tomorrow, 
when I will pay you and furnish a ticket for you to Europe.” 

“Agreed, Peter! Shake! I always knew you’d be on the 
square with me. But put it down in writing,” returned Dalis, 
with less gloom pictured in his face than when he entered. 

“I never put anything down in writing, Jim; particu- 
larly such things as we have been discussing. I consider my 
word good, Jim,” answered Peter, palaveringly. 


EDITH AND JOHN 


65 


“ITl take you at your word, then, Peter.’’ 

“Very well; you have been a good lieutenant, Jim, and 
we don’t like to lose you. But if you have scruples on the 
matter, Jim, I want you to leave — get out of the country, 
and stay out till I call you back. Jim, do you under- 
stand ? ’ ’ 

“Just so I get the cash, I’ll go anywhere, Peter,” an- 
swered Jim Dalis. 

“That will do, then, Jim; come tomorrow at two,” said 
Peter. 

“You have a mighty obnoxious clerk out here,” said Dalis, 
rising to go away. 

“Oh, he’s all right, Jim; you know the password, and 
didn’t give it,” replied Peter. 

“That’s my fault, then,” answered Dalis, as he stepped 
into the shop, there to encounter the angry look of Eli, who 
was at that moment waiting on a customer, or otherwise 
there might have been another little affray, on the spot. 

Jim Dalis, as he was familiarly known among Peter’s 
henchmen, had been a member of the present political ring 
since its inception back in the early nineties. He had now 
but a poor chance of ever rising higher in the ranks than 
a poorly paid lieutenant; and so what was the use, he ar- 
gued with himself, of playing third fiddle any longer, if there 
was any likelihood at all of getting out with a good round 
sum in cash. So, as a bluff, he preferred to work the “con- 
scientious scruple” scheme to get what he thought was due 
him for his valiant services in the corporals’ guard of thft 
gang; and he went to Peter playing that he wanted to lead 
a new life, and his bluff worked out better than he ever 
anticipated. 

It was very necessary, in the workings of this mysterious 
institution, that whenever an officer felt conscience stricken 
to remove him, with great dispatch, from the scene of opera- 
tion, so as to keep out the light of investigation when house- 
cleaning time should come, which it would sometime. Jim 
Dalis had been bred in the business and knew its entire 
ramifications in every branch of civic affairs of the city. 
He had not prospered in it, as some others had, considering 
the length of his services and the good that he had done, 
and the care he had taken in fighting for success. He had 
not been raised to the sublime degree in the ranks of the 


66 


EDIT PI AND JOHN 


upper luminaries, where marched the fitted, to which others 
had been raised, considering the amount of service he had 
put into the cause. He had not been treatd as equitably in 
the division of the spoils that had come into the coffers of 
the charmed circle of grafters, as others had been treated, 
considering the sum of his own earnings he had put into 
the hands of his own satellites shining around him, as those 
above him shone around the great center of this gigantic 
solar system. In consequence, the monster. Disaffection, 
lurked within his breast, and became a thing for the master 
minds to watch with care. Yes, watch with care, and hold 
in check. 

Of course, Jim Dalis was no squealer. No — if he got his 
price. And now, getting his price, he would leave the city. 
He would leave his country; and go to Europe, and live like 
an American Captain of Industry lives in that land when 
his native soil becomes sterile in its bountifulness of pleasure. 
Yes, he would go to Europe at the behest of his superiors, 
so that he could not, for a time, tamper with any of their 
marked cards, and cause a breaking up in their game. 

And to Europe he would go, with his trusting wife and 
family believing that he had earned his lucre honestly; and 
they proudly looked every one in the face, believing that the 
world is on the square.. 

Oh Europe! Europe! If you only knew the private his- 
tory of many of those Americans you receive with open arms, 
craft and graft and greed you would see as their only virtues. 

But, ho ! Let us smile, instead of crying at their ^ follies. 
For no nation ever yet raised a monument to men repre- 
senting such principles. 


EDITH AND JOHN 


67 


CHAPTER IX. 

A THANKSGIVING PARTY. 

In Oakland avenue there stands another mansion. It is 
a lofty pile of brownish stone, and is luxuriously complete 
in its every detail. Standing as it does on a prominent hill, 
it comes in for a great share of excellent praise for its 
beauty and magnificence, and is classed as a close rival of 
that other mansion in Highland avenue. 

Here lived, when in the effulgence of his power and in- 
fluence in the complicated machinery of a big city, one Jacob 
Cobb — a short, squatty, round-faced, blue-eyed, clear-com- 
plexioned man of business, so far as anybody knew about 
his worldly affairs. Here his wife Betty, and daughters, 
Susanna and Marjorie, entertained the eclat of society ac- 
cording to the alamode of fashion; and many were the gay 
parties, balls and dinners that they gave for the select few 
constituting their circle of acquaintances. 

Charming, indeed, were these great affairs, unrivaled in all 
their appointments in the high-toned residential district in 
this unequaled city of social madness and financial debauch- 
ery. Oh, yes; charming they were, indeed, to those select 
of the very select who pandered to Mammon in the worka- 
day hours and to Bacchus in the time of refreshment. 

Aye, aye ; here came the proud, the haughty, the vapid, 
the insipid; the hilarious strumpets of swelldom, the strut- 
ting monstrosities of fashion, the pompous parrots of mim- 
icry; the glib scandal-mongers, the gregarious loiterers over 
afternoon teas; the straight-laced of the kid-gloved gentry, 
the snobs, the prudes, the fops; the blase young men, the 
genteel puppets, the vacuous gentlemen, the bombasts, the 
old curmudgeons; the doting mothers, the innocent maidens; 
with now and then a sprinkling of the good, the sage, the 
savant, as a savory condiment to the mess of social pottage 
the Cobbs dished out of their pot of ethics. 

These events were wonderful achievements in the life of 
Mrs. Cobb, and Mr. Cobb paid the bills without a murmur or 
complaint. 

Mrs. Cobb was sumptuously independent in the conduct 
of these affairs. All the glories of the Queen of Henry of 


68 


EDITH AND JOHN 


Navarre could not equal her glorious accomplishments in the 
one great and only ambition of her life — shining in society. 
Mr. Cobb was bumptuously indifferent as to how his wife 
shone, just so she shone, and that in her shining she did not 
obfuscate him altogether. 

Mrs. Cobb was chunky, like her husband. She was the 
quintessence of charm. She was the substantive mood of the 
present tense of the verb to be. She was gay, humorous, 
and a true leader — in her line of activity. She was near 
the middle time of life, but she had lost little of her beauty. 
Her dark brown eyes snapped like sparks of fire, and her 
cheeks glowed pink when she was enjoying the company 
around her; when in a different mood, she ever had the fine 
quality of knowing how to be pleasant when most bored. 

Mrs. Cobb’s afternoons were of course mild affairs, but 
still very grand to all those idle ladies who deemed it a 
distinctive honor to receive an invitation, and a compliment 
to their refinement to be there. Accomplishment and refine- 
ment! O, fudge! 

Mrs. Cobb must celebrate Thanksgiving day. She and 
her husband must offer up their oblation, in their own un- 
hampered fashion, to the gracious Lord who had blessed 
them with so much to be thankful for. And they did cele- 
brate. 

It was to be an unsurpassed dinner at seven, a violation 
of the rule of etiquette for such state affairs; but as dancing 
was to follow, the order of formality was modified, so that 
the exhilarating whirl could thereby be prolonged. She, 
therefore, sent out the exact number of fifty invitations, 
equally distributed among ladies and gentlemen. The dinner 
was served in the great dining room, dazzling with its silver, 
gold, glass and polished wood, with carnations and roses 
burdening the air with their mesmeric fragrance. 

Promptly at the hour of seven, Mr. Cobb, with Mrs. Cobb 
on his arm, struck out through the maze of palms and smilax 
and other greenery, for the feasting board. Arriving at the 
table, with her husband, she delivered him at the head, and 
she took a seat on his right hand (all contrary to form, 
but she was original, if anything), with her favorite bachelor 
friend, Miram Monroe, on Mr. Cobb’s left, as a cold balanc- 
ing weight to old man Cobb’s ebulliting spirits. Next to Mr. 
Monroe sat Miss Edith Jarney. Jasper Cobb sat opposite 


EDITH AND JOHN 


69 


Miss Jarney, and by his side was Miss Star Barton; and so 
on down the long table sat the other sublunaries of the 
Cleopatra of fashion, the number not stopping till a second 
long table was filled with similarly handsomely gowned 
ladies, and gloomily groomed gentlemen, with the Cobb girls 
sitting among them in peek-a-boo fiuffiness. 

“Mr. Monroe,’’ said Mrs. Cobb, after having made some 
trifling remarks to some of the other guests, showing her 
white teeth with the vivaciousness of a young girl, “you 
appear not to be enjoying yourself tonight.” 

“Oh, yes, Mrs. Cobb,” he replied, with a board-like stiff- 
ness, “I am delighted.” 

“Mrs. Cobb,” interjected her husband, beaming one of 
his sly winks at her, “you should not tease Mr. Monroe to- 
night. Just behold the fair young lady he has by his side!” 

“Mr. Cobb, you are so jolly tonight,” she answered. “Mr. 
Monroe did not salute me when he arrived this evening, so 
I am in ill-humor with him.” 

“Beg your pardon, Mrs. Cobb,” said the ghostly Monroe. 
“The fact is I had no opportunity. Sure, madam, I would 
not slight you for the world, did you give me the oppor- 
tunity. ’ ’ 

“Mr. Monroe,” said Mrs. Cobb, in her best humor, “you 
must get rid of your rigidity of expression, or I will be com- 
pelled to get another man, younger than you, to take your 
place. I am now almost tempted to put my son in your place ; 
Jasper, you know.” 

“I will not hear to that, Mrs. Cobb,” interrupted Edith 
“Why, I shall attempt to enliven Mr. Monroe.” Then to 
that sedate imbecile, she said: “Mr. Monroe, cheer up. See, 
every gentleman present but you is in the fullness of his 
grandiose verboseness tonight. Cheer up, and be alive for 
once !” 

Mr. Monroe turned a lethargic smile upon Edith, and 
whispered, loud enough for his near auditors to hear: “Miss 
Jarney will do me the pleasure, I am sure, of reaching 
the salt.” 

“Why, with pleasure — salt — salt,” said Edith, with a 
gay and mischievous laugh. “This man — waiter, waiter — 
wants some salt to salt down his opinion of women’s rights.” 

“Good, good!” applauded Mrs. Cobb. “Now, what are 
your opinions of women’s rights. Mr. Monroe?” 


70 


EDITH AND JOHN 


“I am salting them down,” he replied, sadly, as he began 
to spray most liberally his salad, which looked, before he 
ceased, as if it would be in a brine of thick salineness. "‘My 
opinion of women is — aside from my mother — that they 
are a lot of soap bubbles.” 

“You bad man,” said Mrs. Cobb, lowering her eyebrows; 
“that is no definition. Women’s rights — w^hat is your opin- 
ion?” 

“They haven’t any rights, save what the men choose to 
give them,” he whispered looking at Edith, with as much 
expression as a monkey. 

“You bleak old bachelor,” retorted Mrs. Cobb. “Edith 
will never have you for saying that.’’ 

Edith turned a wrathful glance upon Mrs. Cobb, and 
gave a scornful laugh at the jest. Then she turned to Mr. 
Monroe, who had ceased in his rapid-fire eating long enough 
to look at her like a plaster cast might look. 

“Miss Edith,” said Jasper Cobb, who had been tearnestly 
engaged with Miss Barton, paying her the closest attention 
with his palavering nonsense, “I am jealous of Mr. Monroe.” 

“Indeed,” returned Edith. 

“I am, indeed,” he answered, and the impropriety of 
his remark struck Edith’s ear discordantly. 

“What a great teaser you are, Jasper,” said Mrs, Cobb. 

“A chip of the old block,” said Mr. Cobb, smiling at his 
joke, as he took it to be. 

“Jasper does not mean a word of it,’^ said Mrs. Cobb, at 
the same time hoping that he did. ■ 

“With due consideration for my friend, Mr. Monroe,” 
said Edith, “I will turn my attention to him.” 

Then Edith suiiimoned up all her latent substitutes for 
naturalness, and bore down upon Mr. Monroe With such a 
load of banter and mirthful sayings that that gentleman 
eventually smiled, to the surprise of everybody. Then it 
became alarmingly noticeable that Mr. Monroe was paying 
close attention to Edith’s highly interesting but entirely as- 
sumed form of gabbling — so much so, in fact, that it was 
feared by Mrs. Cobb once that he was on the point of 
taking Edith in his unloving embrace, and running away 
with her. But Mrs. Cobb saved him from this duncely 
possibility by saying: 

“Be careful, Mr. Monroe, or you will do something des- 
perate directly ! ’ ’ 


EDITH AND JOHN 


71 


Mr. Monroe quickly recovered himself and became a 
living sphynx again. 

“Hah, Miss Edith, said Jasper Cobb, catching the trend 
of things Edithward, “now, I am jealous.” 

Miss Edith turned to him, with pretended hautiness, and 
should liked to have said, “Impudence,” but forbore that 
unlady-like expression in deference to her own good breed- 
ing. She was relieved, however, from making any answer 
to him by Mr. Cobb, who arose at that critical moment and 
annoimced, most graciously and grandiloquentlyj that the 
table would be cleared of the women and menu to make 
way for cigars and wine. 

All of which orders being carried into execution, as 
per custom, the waiters proceeded to serve those two re- 
freshing desserts. They sat long over their cigars, and 
longer over their wine — till the air was an ultramarine 
blueness, and the men in tipsy joyousness. 

Mr. Monroe was very thirsty, it turned out, from the 
number of glasses that he drained, which had an happy 
effect upon him. For, with the disappearance of the wine 
down his esophagus, came a set grin on his face, akin to 
the smile of a disgruntled ghost. Young Cobb, aside from 
smoking enormously, imbibed freely, much against his per- 
sonal appearance and qualifications to enter much farther 
into the pleasures of the evening. All the other gentlemen, 
including old man Cobb, entered into the libations with 
rare partiality — except Mr. Jarney, who, it was seen, re- 
frained from participating in the dispatching of the in- 
vigorating liquor, a constitutional habit with him. This 
trait was looked upon by his now inebriating friends as 
a high breach of etiquette in not sipping wine after breaking 
bread at the home of a friend, and was an affront not to 
be condoned on such an occasion. But Mr. Jarney, while 
not approving of such bacchanalian practices, as far as he 
and his family were concerned, looked askance at them, so 
long as they were confined to others, and he made no protest. 

After the free lubrication of their unsettled nerves and 
muddled heads, the men arose to join the ladies, who in the 
meantime had dressed for the ball, now to follow. 

When all was in readiness and the band had struck up 
a softly insinuating waltz, Mr. and Mrs. Cobb wheeled out 
on the floor and glided around the room with the agility of 


72 


EDITH AND JOHN 


two sixteen-year-olds. Mr. and Mrs. Jarney came after 
them, stately and graceful in their evolutions. Then came 
the ghost — Monroe — looking like a piece of burning asbes- 
tos, as a result of the wine, with his arm around the waist 
of Miss Edith. Then came young Cobb, whispering words 
of foolishness into the ear of Miss Barton, as they went 
round and round in a delirious whirl — to him. Then came 
all the other ladies and gentlemen, the latter suffering won- 
drously in the advanced stage of booziness. No, we will 
not cast all the shame upon the men in their journey of 
giddiness, for some of the bewitching woman, ah, and even 
unbewitching, too, presumed it their blessed privilege to par- 
take of a little of the tonic of joy, as an equalizer to the 
wabbling motions of their husbands or friends. 

Number after number, in this wise, was pulled off, each 
time the bibbers adding more and more wine as a wash 
down after each exhausting exhibition. So in consequence, 
after awhile, man after man began to fall by the wayside, 
and call feebly upon the good Samaritan : Bromo-seltzer, 
or bromo-something else: to keep them in condition to con- 
tinue the mad seance. But the little imp Wine, once he 
secrets himself in the corpuscles of the blood, is a pretty 
difficult being to placate in so short a time. Not satisfied 
was he in laying hold of the faultless gentlemen in spike- 
tailed coats and immaculate bosoms, sparkling with all the 
iridescence of the purchasing power of money, but he sought 
out some of the decolleted dames and gauzyed damsels, and 
enveloped them in his opiatic arms. Even Mr. and Mrs. 
Cobb were not spared from his envelopment; for, after the 
fourth set, they became so maudlin in their hilarity that 
the sober servants were called upon to lead them out of 
the ballroom, from which they went, in a great state of 
regal debility, into the seclusion of their own bedchamber, 
there to sleep away their Thanksgiving potation. 

And it was not long till every corner in the house had 
a sleeper languishing in the happy shades of somnolence. 
Mr. Monroe, the astute ghost of quietness, after cavorting 
for a considerable time like a nanny goat in a field of 
crimson clover, was among the first to succumb to the silenc- 
ing influence of the giver of potency, and disappeared, like 
a settling stone, into a whirlpool of revelry. And young 
Jasper Cobb, the gay and handsome son of the Thanks- 


EDITH AND JOHN 


73 


giving father and mother, after cutting capers that would 
put to ignominious flight a colored gen ’man at a cake walk, 
gave up the contest at last and became numbered among 
the recumbent forms that rested, like so many babes in 
the woods, along the walls. 

You are not supposed to believe that the Jarneys wit- 
nessed all these antics of the merry makers at this party, 
to which a half column space in the society page of the 
Sunday newspapers was devoted. No, you are not to believe 
they remained, retaining all their senses, to witness this 
pyretic debauch of high society. The truth is, that the 
Jarneys came as a matter of form in deference to Mr. Cobb, 
one of the highups in business; and they left in deference 
to their conscience and self-respect. The fact is, that after 
the second number was rendered, Mr. and Mrs. Jarney, 
seeing how things were going, and also at the solicitation of 
Miss Edith, took their ward. Star Barton, and repaired to 
their home. 

“Well, how do you like high society?” asked Edith, 
when she and Star had reached their boudoir for a short 
lounging before going to bed. 

“If that party is a fair sample, I don’t like it,” em- 
phatically-answered Star. “Why, it is no more respectable, 
if half as much, with all their fine things and glitter, than 
some of the hoe-downs in Hell’s Half Acre.” 

“I am very sorry we attended,” said Edith. 

“I am not,” returned Star. “It has been a great lesson 

to me.” 

“Would you go again?” asked Edith. 

“I shall always be guided by you, dear Edith.” 

“Then you will have no further opportunity to attend 
a function of that kind, for that is the last for me,” said 

Edith; “especially with that class of people. Papa and 

mamma care nothing for such doings; neither do I; but 
owing to business connections, we are obliged to lend our 
presence, sometimes. Formality! Star; formality!” 

“Is it one of the requirements of business?” asked Star, 
innocently. 

“It is a deplorable truth,” answered Edith. 

“I am glad, dear Edith, you are not wrapped up, heart 
and soul, with such people,” said Star. 

“It is my pleasure to be independent. Star.” 


74 


EDITH AND JOHN 


“And I shall follow your example, dear Edith, returned 
Star, with unbounden confidence in her friend. 

“Say, Star,” said Edith, as she seated herself on an 
ottoman at the feet of Star, and taking one of Star’s hands 
in hers, “I have a trip planned for you j will you go?” 

“If it is your wish, I will,” answered Star. 

“Star,” and Edith looked up into her friend’s face, 
blushing the least bit, “you remember the young man of 
whom I was telling you about meeting by chance? Yes. 
He is now my father’s private secretary.” 

“Oh, is he?” asked Star, by rote. 

‘"Yes; and by my request, too. I will take you to my 
father’s office tomorrow, and, if he is there, you shall share 
his acquaintance with me.” 

“I shall be glad to meet him — if he is your friend,” 
said Star. 

‘‘He is my friend, Star — no, not yet — but I want him 
to be. Star,” and Edith buried her head in Star’s lap to 
hide her tell-taie‘ face. Then raising her head, in a moment, 
“Will you go? Of course ^ou will.” 

“If you permit me to talk with him,” said Star, teasingly, 
“I will go.” ' • 

“Who would think of being jealous of you, my dear 
Star? Why should I? He is no more — yes, he is — ” and 
Edith buried her face again, while Star stroked her long 
silken tresses: in loving admiration. 

“Ho; ho, Edith! I know,” said Star, pointing a finger 
of jest at her, as she raised her face. 

“Do you guess my secret, Star?” 

“Why^ dear girl, I cannot help but know it.” 

“And you will keep it. Star?” 

“To my dying day. Does he know it?” 

“Oh, fio, n6; I have seen him only once. Do you think 
it right in me. Star?” 

don’t know, Edith. How will you ever make it known 
to him?’'^ ; , 

“Oh, Star! H do not wish to; I do not wish to! He 
must find it out for himself. I know he is such a fine young 
man; for my father even praises him.” 

' ‘‘He; may never know it, Edith,” said Star, not yet know- 
ing herself the secrets of love, as old as she was; albeit, she 
possessed a true sense of the great mystery of life; “and 
then what?” 


EDITH AND JOHN 


75 


'‘I ean. only liye in hope that he will, some day, see and 
know. Do you think, it wrong in me, Star, to jsay these 
things?’- ... ; 

‘‘If it is from yopr. hearty, no.” 

“Let me- kiss you,. Star? There !’’v 

Love comes to a pure woman veiled in mystery, and de- 
parts only whnn her spjirit returns unto Go(i who gave it. 
Were they all as pure. a^.Eidith, the temptations of our mod- 
ern Eden^ would be as holy a$, the waters of Siloam ’s Pool. 


CHAPTER X. 

' ..--i . . ' 

JQHN WINTHHOPEJ’S SECOND PROMOTION. 

John .Winthrope had a small eo^iy room by himself off 
the main office of Hiram Jarn.e^> It was about the size of 
a twelve by sixteen rug, and so riehly furnished that when 
he got into it, he felt as if he had been clandestinely con- 
cealed in a bandbox lined with rare and nostly velvets. 

There wers a green rugget on the floor, a miniature roll- 
top desk in one corner, glistening in its polish; a typewriting 
desk near a wide plate glass window; a cabinet for letter 
stationery ; three leather-seated mahogany chairs, one at 
each desk, and another for company. The walls were green 
tinted, and around them John had hung some landscape 
pictures in chromo, mostly rural scenes; photographs of 
his parents ; one of a mountain girl, his sister ; one of a big 
young man, his brother; and those of two boyhood friends. 

Every morning at nine o’clock John came into this pala- 
tial private office. First, he perused the morning newspapers, 
then looked over the bundle of private letters that came to 
the hegd of the firm, and assorted them according to the 
postmark,; or the nature he judged of the contents as near 
as he could make out from outside indications; after which 
he placed them in a letter tray, got ready his note book, 
and placed them all together orderly, to be picked up, at 
the ring of the bell, to be carried to the desk of Mr. Jarney, 
who arrived at the office, when in the city, every day punc- 
tually at ten. 

John learned rapidly. A week had not gone by, after 


76 


EDITH AND JOHN 


he assumed his new post, till he was master of every detail 
of a secretary's work in such an important place. He was 
quick in taking down the dictation of Mr. Jarney, who was 
a rapid talker, a clear enunciator, never lacking for the exact 
word to lucidly express himself. John was speedy on the 
typewriter; hence he was but a brief time in conveying, 
what would appear to the average person, the unintelligible 
phonetic characters into Englishized words, sentences, para- 
graphs, and finally completed letters, ready for the chiog- 
raphy of that great man to be attached thereto. Many let- 
ters of little importance, such as from the beggars, cranks, 
politicians, boodlers, or of the routine kind, John was soon 
authorized to answer himself, to the relief of the chief. 

For a whole week John had been at this pleasureable 
labor, doing it with far greater ease than he had the more 
arduous task of keeping books; and he did it with such 
dispatch that Mr. Jarney was surprised at his adeptness, 
and he favored him with due commendation. 

For several days Mr. Jarney was taciturn in the pres- 
ence of his new secretary. He talked with him purely on 
matters in hand after the dictating period was over, and 
then but briefiy. Not once for nearly a week did he con- 
descend to converse with him on any other question — except 
that occasionally he would remark about the continuing 
‘‘beastly weather,” as he invariably termed such climatic 
conditions. 

John went through the daily routine earnestly and 
methodically, with no thought for anything but that he 
might make good, and prove himself worthy of his hire; 
and also thinking very often of his good old parents, his 
dear little sister and big strong brother on the farm in 
the hills. He had dismissed Edith Jarney from his mind, 
as a lost cause goes before the reasoning man. He had not 
seen her, nor heard of her, since that memorable night. He 
was not presumptuous enough to imagine that she would 
contaminate her thoughts about him. For why should he 
be so imaginative? He had no reason for believing that 
such a conventional lady, as she appeared to be (basing his 
opinion of her on her station), would ever think of the affair 
one moment after she was gone out of his sight, or was 
ensconced in her own palatial home, where the shadow of 
such as he was not likely of ever being cast. 


EDITH AND JOHN 


77 


Still, in his idle moments, he would revert to the event, 
and simply wonder what had become of her: whether she 
had gone to some sunnier clime to bask in the smiles and 
receive the addresses of richer bloods than his; or whether 
she was not then leading a gay existence among her class 
in the gilded halls of her surroundings, where flash and 
gleam the lads and maidens of her own selected set in the 
brighter light that luxury provides. 

But such musings were on rare occasions, and then only 
reverted to as a pleasing pastime in his lonesome hours. For, 
since assuming his new duties, he not only was serving 
his own master, but was serving himself by reading, study- 
ing, and working out the mysteries that surrounded the 
privacy of Mr. Jarney’s business. He did this so that, if 
the time ever came, he should be fitted to perform further 
duties in the advancing line. However, no matter how busy 
he was, there were times when homesickness would steal 
over him, and he would long for his own people and their 
humble fireside to soften his distraught feelings, whenever 
they should assert themselves. 

Be these things as they may, two weeks, almost, had 
passed by since he went into his bandbox office, when Edith 
Jarney, accompanied by Star Barton, came to see her father. 

The time was in the middle of the afternoon. Mr. Jarney 
was sitting at his desk dictating a third and last batch of 
letters, and John was sitting by diligently taking notes. 
Edith opened the office door of her own accord, and she 
and Star walked within unannounced. Edith was dressed 
in dark colors in harmony with the weather. She carried a 
sealskin muff, and had a boa of the same fur around her 
neck, and the cutest round hat possible sat upon her head. 
Verily, she looked like a princess out on winter parade as 
she advanced toward a broad, flat-top table in the center 
of the room. Star, dressed much in the same fashion, and 
looking as stately as any lady at court, followed Edith. 

Both young ladies sat down at the table to await Mr. 
Jarney’s convenience to greet them. John was sitting with 
his back to them, and so silent was their tread that he did 
not hear them enter. His pen flew from left to right on 
the pages of his note book as Mr. Jarney talked in his 
low monotonous voice, without inflection to his words, or 
change in his countenance. Mr. Jarney saw the young 


7 ^ 


EDITH AND JOHN 


ladies enter, but, through a habit of his of never being 
disturbed when in the throes of grinding out letters, the 
young ladies’ coming did not bother him in the least. 

Edith and Star sat quietly, abiding their time to speak. 
Edith tapped the polished top of the table with her gloved 
hand. Star sat meditating, with her eyes bent upon the 
young man. Thus they sat for ten minutes or more, watch- 
ing master and servant at the fountain head of industrial 
achievement. 

Then, without a word to John, Mr. Jarney arose ; and, 
coming forward, grasped his daughter by the- hand and 
kissed her on the lips. Turning to Star, he accorded her the 
same fatherly greeting. 

John arose as Mr. Jarney arose, and was folding his 
note book as he was taking a step to make his exit. In 
that moment, when Mr. Jarney was saluting Edith, he looked 
toward her. Recognizing the young lady, he hesitated for 
a second, flushed, faltered, hesitated again, for he had not 
known they were present. As Mr. Jarney turned to Star 
to greet her. Miss Edith turned to John. Her face flushed 
^Iso. She stood a moment, with that light of recognition in 
her eyes, that gives a peculiarly sensational effect upon the 
beholder, sometimes. He was uncertain. She was uncertain. 
He made a step forward to continue toward his office, 
when Edith smiled, came up to him, and extended her hand. 

“Mr. Winthrope, I believe?” she said. 

John was in the act of bowing when he saw her ex- 
tended hand, and foregoing a completion of that act of 
politeness, he extended his hand to meet Edith’s. John 
looked very grave. He had needs to look grave, if the 
beating of his heart indicated a particle of his feelings at 
that moment. Edith continued smiling as only she could 
smile. Then John pulled himself together sufficiently in 
his embarrassment and said: 

“Miss Jarney, if I am not mistaken?” 

“You are not mistaken, Mr. Winthrope,” she said. “I 
am very glad to meet you again; but under more pleasant 
circumstances than when we last met.” 

“The pleasure is not all yours. Miss Jarney,” he replied, 
releasing her hand. 

“How are you?” she asked, still smiling. 

“Fine, thank you,” he answered. 


EDITH AND JOHN 


79 


“1 want you to meet my dear friend, Miss Barton,” she 
said to him, and then turning to Star: “Miss Barton, my 
friend, Mr. Winthrope.” 

Star advanced, and made a low bow in return to that 
of John’s. Mr. Jarney stood off a few steps taking in the 
formal introductions and salaams of his daughter and her 
friend with his new secretary, at the same time looking 
as unbending in his demeanor as a cast iron pillar, from all 
outward appearances; but really relishing, with a glad heart, 
the simplicity of his beautiful daughter in her cordiality 
toward Mr. Winthrope. 

‘ ‘ Star — Miss Barton, this is the young man of whom I 
was speaking.” Then, looking at him, with a quizzical air, 
as if she wanted to be patronizingly humble, said, directing 
her words at Star: “He is the young man. Star, who res- 
cued my hat and gave me his own umbrella.” 

“That was a gallant act,” said Star, smiling genially 
upon him. “I have heard nothing but praise of you for the 
past two weeks.” 

Edith thereat blushed more crimson than ever before in 
all her innocent career; and sought to turn the subject by 
saying: “Oh, Star — it is spitting snow,” looking out the 
window as she said it. 

John’s face turned a pinky color also, and he began 
to have qualms of consternation in being detained from a 
prompt execution of his work at hand. 

Star immediately saw she had made a blunder, and tried 
to make amends by continuing: “I told Miss Edith that I 
should be happy to meet such a gallant young man, as she 
says you are.” 

Edith was now more flushed. She burned with con- 
fusion and despair over Star’s untimely statement of facts. 

“If you ladies will excuse me, I will resume my work,” 
said John, to avoid further complications between Edith’s 
expressive face and Star’s expressive words. 

“We will excuse you, Mr. Winthrope — business before 
pleasure, always,” said Edith. 

‘ ‘ I am glad to meet you — to have met you — and hope 
to see you again. Miss Barton,” said John, bowing to Star; 
and then, bowing to Edith, he departed. 

In the meantime, Mr. Jarney had taken his seat at his 
desk in a highly flustered state of mind by reason of his 


80 


EDITH AND JOHN 


daughter’s sudden change of countenance over the uninten- 
tional reflect assertion of Star’s. When John had closed the 
door of his office behind him, and the two ladies were alone 
with Mr. Jarney, the latter turned about in his chair, as if 
in a passion of rage, and said: 

‘‘My dear Edith, what is the meaning of your actions?” 

“Why, papa, dear,” she answered, “it is only my way 
of showing my appreciation of his former kindness.” 

“My little chit,” he returned, as she put one arm around 
his necK, “you exhibited more than simple appreciation in 
your looks, when you greeted Mr. Winthrope.” 

“Now, do not scold me, dear papa; if you do, I will 
cry,” said Edith, fumbling for a handkerchief somewhere 
about her garments, with which to stay the flow of tears 
already glistening in her eyes. 

“Ha, ha, Edith,” replied her father; “I am not chiding 
you; I know my little girl would do nothing unbecoming.” 

“Papa, is it unbecoming to be civil to a young man like 
him?” she asked. 

“Not in the least, my child; he is a fine young man — ” 
and Edith hugged her father more closely — ‘ ‘ and — ah, 
Edith, you make me wonder, sometimes, at your way of 
looking at other young men of our class.” 

“None of them is as good as he, I know,” she said, 
with such sincerity, and so pensively, that her father was 
really disturbed. 

“I know he is a good young man; but, Edith, it would 
be very naughty for you to encourage him,” he said ad- 
visedly. 

“Then, you do not like him, papa? I know you do not. 
Wish I had never requested you to advance him to this 
place, then — then — I would not have seen him again.” 

“Why, Edith, my child! what are you saying? If you 
persist in your talking that way, it will be necessary for 
me to dismiss him at once, and have no more of this bene- 
factor business on my hands,” replied her father, sternly; 
at the same time winking at Star, belying the asperity of 
his voice. 

“Now, papa, you do not mean that,” she responded, 
patting him on the head, “I know you too well, you bad 
dear papa. If I thought you did, it would make me feel 
very cross toward you. There — now — papa — do not — say 


EDITH AND JOHN 


81 


— any more.” She concluded the last phrase with kisses 
between the words. 

“My dear, we will drop the matter,” he said. “I mean 
to keep him, Edith; for I like him; really I do. Miss Barton 
what is your opinion?” 

“The same as Edith’s,” she answered. 

Edith turned quickly and looked at Star, a mobile stiff- 
ness clouding her face, not knowing how to take Star’s 
words. 

“Ha, ha, ha,” laughed her father; “you are an extraordi- 
nary girl, Miss Barton — as extraordinary as Edith.” 

“Thank you,” returned Star, bowing to him. “I have 
reasons to feel extraordinary since two weeks ago.” 

Father, daughter and ward whiled away the time for an 
hour in such kind of interchange of colloquy. Then John 
returned, with his tray full of letters, and set it down on 
Mr. Jarney’s desk. 

“Mr. Winthrope,” said Mr. Jarney, looking up, with a 
deceiving frown, which caused John to have queer sensa- 
tions go through him at first; “Mr. Winthrope, I am going 
to — I am tired of signing letters, and shall delegate that 
power to you. So sit down here at my desk, and put your 
‘John Hancock’ on these, using my name, of course, instead 
of your own. You may do this while Miss Barton and I 
take a little turn down the street. Edith, I will leave 
you here to see that Mr. Winthrope does not shirk his 
work. ’ ’ 

John was amazed; Edith was astounded; Star was 
astonished. Mr. Jarney repaired to the cloak room, from 
whence he returned in a few minutes wearing a high silk 
hat and heavy overcoat, and carrying a gold-headed cane. 

“Miss Barton, will you accompany me?” he said to Star, 
after his preparation, taking it for granted that she would 
not refuse. 

When they went out, Edith seated herself in the chair 
where John sat when he took down her father’s dictations. 
John sat in her father’s chair at the desk, looking so near 
overwhelmed at the turn of things, since morning, that he 
felt like sinking through the floor, or going straight up to 
the ceiling and out through the roof to some other country. 
As Mr. Jarney and Miss Barton went out the door, John 
turned and looked at Edith. He blushed; she blushed. 


82 


EDITH AND JOHN 


“This is certainly an unusual situation/’ said John. 

“It more equals our encounter that night,” she replied. 

“But under pleasanter circumstances,” he returned. 

“If we had that old umbrella of mine, how realistic we 
might make it,” she said, giving a little laugh, and sinking 
back into the depths of the cushioned chair, folding her 
gloved hands as though perfectly at ease, although showing 
some timidity of expression in her conversation. 

“I have it yet,” he said, as he took up a pen loaded 
with ink, as if it were his intention to commence signing 
the letters but looking at Edith shyly. 

“Yet?” she raised her eyebrows. 

“I put it away among my other keepsakes,” he answered, 
turning now as if he really did intend to execute his “John 
Hancock” on the letters. 

“What for?” asked Edith, tapping a finger on the arm 
of her chair, 

‘ ‘ Oh, as a hobby ; I always try to keep something to 
remember any unusual happening in my life,” said he, for- 
getting to sign the name of “Hiram Jarney.” 

“Do you know what I did with yours?” she asked, fold- 
ing her arms. 

“Consigned it to the garbage heap, I suppose,” he replied, 
letting the ink fall off his pen to the spoilment of a letter. 

“You are not a good guesser,” she replied, her blue eyes 
sparkling, “It came near going there — but I have ‘J. W. ’ 
as an ornament in my boudoir.” 

“I imagine it would be out of harmony with the rest 
of the decorations,” he said, dropping more ink, and still 
neglecting to sign the name. 

“It harmonizes with my sentiments on certain matters,” 
she said. 

“For instance?” He looked at her. 

‘ ‘ Class distinction. ’ ’ 

“What does mine signify?” attempting to sign, but only 
getting down the capital H. 

“You,” she looked to the fioor. 

“And yours?” Now interested. 

“Me.” Still looking down. 

“Then, we should exchange them,” he said wonderingly. 

“That would not be to my liking,” as she looked up. 


EDITH AND JOHN 


8J 


“Not?” he asked, turning from his paper and pen. 

“No,” she said, demurly. 

“Ah, Miss Jarney,” he said, with despair indicated in 
his voice, “I have presumed, at times, to wish to be better 
acquainted with you, since that night; but I have thought it 
useless.” 

“Mr. Winthrope, nothing would give me more happiness 
than to be on good terms with you.” 

“But I see no possibility of that, except — I believe we 
ought to be on good terms — that is, friends. ’ ’ 

“So do I.” 

“May I hope — no, I must not — may I hope to see you 
here again, sometime?” he asked seriously. 

“I used to come here often.” 

“I never saw you here before.” 

‘ ‘ No — I did not like the last secretary. ’ ’ 

“Then you will come again?” 

“I anticipate that I shall.” 

“Then we may become better acquainted?” dropping his 
pen. 

“If you wish it, Mr. Winthrope,” she answered, looking 
at her hands lying on the arms of the chair, then up to 
John, who was taking up his pen again to reach for a new 
dip of ink. 

At that moment the door opened and Mr. Jarney and 
Miss Barton entered. He carried his hat and cane in one 
hand, and arrived at his desk in time to see John complet- 
ing the signing of his name to the first letter of the pile 
before him. 

“Mr. Winthrope,” he said, “you have been remiss in your 
duties. Edith, I am afraid you would make a poor overseer 
in this office.” 

John, thereupon, fell to work with a will to expedite 
the signing of the letters that had been so woefully neg- 
lected during his entertaining tete-te-tete with Edith. 

Edith and Miss Barton prepared to take their departure. 
Both were standing before Mr. Jarney in low conversation, 
when John turned around, as a new thought came to him, 
and said, to Miss Barton: 

“Miss Barton, do you have a brother?” 

“I have several brothers, Mr. Winthrope,” she replied; 
“but one of them disappeared months ago.” 


84 


EDITH AND JOHN 


‘‘What was his given name?” 

“Michael.” 

“Meeting you today, Miss Barton, reminds me that 1 
met a young man about two weeks ago who gave the name 
of Mike Barton.” 

Then John related to her the incident of meeting her 
brother, and of the words that had passed between them, 
without making it clear to the young ladies, however, that 
the nature of the business that he followed was of the most 
questionable. 

“Poor brother! that must be Michael,” said Star, when 
John had concluded his story. “Wish I could see him; I 
know I could prevail on him going home.” 

“Would you help us find him?” asked Edith, directing 
her question to John. 

“It would give me pleasure to aid you,” replied John. 

“How interesting a company we three can make in this 
undertaking,” cried Edith, with enthusiasm. “Papa, will 
you permit me to join them?” 

“If Mr. Winthrope is your guide, you may,” he answered, 
now interested himself. 

“When shall we begin our search?” asked Edith, eagerly 
looking at John, and beaming one of her sweetest smiles on 
him. 

“Whenever Mr. Jarney gives me leave of absence — or, 
better, I can do it before or after hours. How will that do?” 

“Capital!” cried Edith. “Papa, that will be fine. You 
can trust me with Mr. Winthrope?” 

“Oh, of course,” he answered. 

“Good, papa, dear!” she exclaimed. “Now, Star — Miss 
Barton, we will go home. When shall we begin?” 

“When I notify you,” replied John, rising to bid the 
ladies good day. 

The two young ladies departed. To John, it was like the 
going of two sunbeams that had crossed his lonely pathway, 
to shine for a moment, then disappear, with the promise of 
returning on a fairer day to come. 


EDITH AND JOHN 


85 


CHAPTER XI. 

THE AUTOMOBILE ACCIDENT. 

Mike Barton, the rounder, knocked off from his lecherous 
avocation the afternoon referred to in the previous chapter, 
as was his custom every day at that time, and wandered 
aimlessly through the throngs of pedestrians in the main 
thoroughfares of the city. He was submerged in an elegant 
overcoat of black that shut him up from head to foot, so 
that only his feet stuck out below, and his head half pro- 
truded above ; for the day was in its nastiest mood. A new 
derby hat sat cocked to one side of his head, and his hair 
was in imitation of the devotees of the game of football. 

With his hands poked deeply into his side coat pockets, 
he shambled along, smoking a cigarette, that, at times, sent 
up a cloud, like a halo of fog, around his head. He was 
careless, unconcerned, and impudently independent in his 
gait. He pushed his way through the crowds with such an 
abandon of gentility that the curious stared at him, and 
gave a shrug of their shoulders, as much as to say, ‘‘There 
goes a bad one.’’ He would stop at times, when a crowd 
had formed to gaze at some new attraction in a window; 
then, with a toss of his head, would push on, maybe shoulder- 
ing a meek little woman out of the way; or sidling up to an 
unsophisticated girl with a licentious stare, or a suggestive 
smile; or he would drop into a saloon, or billiard hall, or 
tobacco stand to see his fellow touts; and then go on, ever 
aimless in his peregrinations. 

After lighting a fresh cigarette, he took up a position 
on the steps at the main entrance to the Park building; 
looking into the faces of the passers-by, or doing nothing but 
kill time; when his attention was arrested by a tall, sleek 
gentleman in a plug hat and heavy overcoat, and who was 
slinging a gold-headed cane, crossing Smithfield street, with 
a lady on his arm. 

“By the Gods!” he exclaimed, so loudly that those stand- 
ing by gazed at him in wonderment. The cause of his 
exclamation was the lady and gentleman in question, cross- 
ing the street. 

The tall gentleman was talking animatedly, and the lady 


86 


EDITH AND JOHN 


was smiling and laughing in return, as if what he said gave 
her great merriment. As they passed the corner, going down 
Fifth, Mike stepped to the pavement, and followed. He kept 
a few paces in the rear, but always in sight of the swiftly 
moving pair. 

The plug hat loomed above the heads of other people, 
and the lady was conspicuous by her elegant costume. As 
they walked on, he followed, ever in view of the high hat. 
They turned up Wood, he followed. They crossed Wood and 
went down Sixth street, he followed. They came to Liberty 
and went down Sixth avenue, he followed. They went out 
on the Federal street bridge, he followed. They stopped at 
the center span, he stopped. They looked down the river, 
he took up a position behind an iron girder of the bridge, 
and peeped around at them. 

The wind was blowing briskly, skudding snow-like clouds 
across the sky, and white caps danced upon the river. Smoke 
from factory chimney, or train, or boat, lay in horizontal 
rolls of grayish blackness, like tubular pillars floating in 
the air on the breast of the wind. They looked down the 
Alleghany, facing the pelting breezes — through the maze 
of craft; through the uplifted arms of many bridges, rearing 
themselves like spider-lines criss-crossing the vista of the 
river; through the distance over black buildings, sheds and 
shanties, and everything, they looked, over and above to 
the bald bluffs of Washington Heights, where clung the 
homes of the middle class, like crows’ nests in aerie oaks. 
Then down beneath that hill of rock, staggering under its 
weight of poverty, they looked — she seeing, as if in a 
vision, the depressing hovels of the very poor; and a tear 
came to her eyes. But Mr. Jarney did not see those tears. 
He was intent only in passing away a short space of time 
with Star, as a gratifying diversion in his daily course of life. 

The wind brushed by her skirts Avith great vehemence, 
and blew her hair about her face in straggling strands of 
plaits. She placed one elbow upon the iron railing, and 
rested her chin in her hand, and looked down at the dancing 
water. Her mild blue eyes were still moistened, and she 
wondered how deep and cold the Avater below her was, and 
what there was beneath its surface. Her lips Avere blue from 
the chaffing wind, her teeth chattered from the chill, and her 
<*heeks paled before the scurrying blasts. 


EDITH AND JOHN 


87 


“I wonder if there is life down there in that dirty yellow 
water,” she said, meditatively. 

“There used to be many fish in there, at least there was 
when I was a boy,” he answered, leaning over the railing 
and looking downward; “but the defilement of the water by 
the mills and mines has killed ever bit of life, almost.” 

“Nothing escapes the hand of men, it seems, in their 
search for wealth,” she mused. 

“Nothing — you have been crying,” he said, turning his 
eyes upon her. 

“No; it is the wind,” she answered. 

“Ah, the wind; it is raw today,” he returned. “Let us 
turn our backs and go to the other side of the bridge.” 

They crossed the bridge, and looked northward — through 
the interminable spans of other bridges; through the blue 
fog and smoke that rose in the distance like vapor from 
smouldering pits of peat, suffering their eyes to wander 
over the serrated house-tops that filled Alleghany City as a 
checker-board filled with “men.” He directed her atten- 
tion, by his raised and extended cane, to some prominent 
objects that stood out bolder in the landscape than any of 
the rest. 

And of all their movements, Mike Barton was a stealthy 
observer from his place of espionage. He recognized his 
sister when first he set eyes on her. He was inclined to 
approach her as she stood with Mr. Jarney on the bridge, 
and make himself known, and take the consequences of the 
possible result of meeting such a gentleman under such 
dubious circumstances. But the longer he stood observing 
them in their quiet contemplation of the scene, the more 
disinclined he was in attempting to carry out his scheme. 

Mike Barton knew very well where his sister had gone 
when she left home. He knew the home that she lived in; 
but in his vaccillation he could not formulate a plan that 
he could operate tending to its fulfillment, in reaching her. 
Therefore, he concluded to wait his time to meet her alone. 
This was the first time that he had seen her since she had 
entered upon her new life, or in months for that matter. 
Ah, my dastardly brother, with all your vile thoughts and 
debased notions, thy chaste sister is beyond your unholy 
machinations! He was not deterred, however, by pity, or 
brotherly love, or homely feelings from pursuing his purpose. 


88 


EDITH AND JOHN 


After the panorama had been viewed from the bridge to 
Star’s complete satisfaction and joy, Mr. Jarney, after taking 
out his watch to note the time of day, turned, with Star on 
his arm, and began retracing his steps. Mike followed dog- 
gedly, surreptitiously, going into stores, into hotel lobbies — 
out again into the streets, always at a safe distance, that 
his actions would not be noticed by those being followed. 

Finally, the trail and the quarry ended at the entrance 
of the Frick building. Here Mike took up his post, after 
Mr. Jarney and Miss Barton had gone within. There he 
stood buried deeply in his collar, still smoking the delectable 
cigarette (to him), with as much energy and enjoyment as 
when he started out on his perambulatory quest for fresh 
air. The air being chilly, Mike crouched in a corner beneath 
the big arch of the doors to keep the chills from going up 
and down and through and through his snakish frame. 

An enclosed auto, complete in all its appointments, stood 
closely hugging the curbstone, the chauffeur having taken 
refuge from the rawness in a nearby lounging place, where a 
little warmth was obtainable while he waited for his charges 
to be taken homeward. 

Shortly, after Mike had taken up his position as a sentry 
might on more important and graver business, the great 
doors by him suddenly bursted open, and the two young 
ladies hurried out. They approached the auto together. 
Edith opened the door of the cab, and let Star within, she 
following. After being seated, they leaned back on the soft 
cushions of the enclosed conveyance to wait the coming of 
the chauffeur to take them at a giddy speed to the mansion 
on the hill. 

Mike, from his sentry corner, watched their every move- 
ment. Twice, or thrice, he was tempted to approach them, 
and make himself known; but he was restrained by an in- 
ward impulse that told him, even in his vapid sense of rea- 
soning, that he would be committing an egregious mistake, 
should he do so at that time and place. 

The chauffeur did not come. The ladies sat quietly, 
happy, oblivious of their surroundings, quietly talking ; 
with now and then a little laugh from each other as a 
climax to their joyous spirits. Still the chauffeur did not 
return; and still the ladies sat on, paying no heed as to 
whether the chauffeur was at his post, or off somewhere in 
China. 


EDITH AND JOHN 


89 


Suddenly the machine puffed, snorted, and sent up a fog 
of acrid fumes. Then a lever clicked over a rachet, then 
another; and the auto began puffing regularly, and moved 
slowly out into the street. It creeped and crawled among 
the wagons and carts and horses to Smithfield street. Up 
that crowded thoroughfare it went, weaving its way certainly, 
cautiously, deliberately, determinedly, till it was out of the 
congested district; and out where the streets were freer from 
the impedimenta of human contrivances. As the distance 
increased, the speed of the machine increased, accordingly; 
and they were directly whizzing onward at a lively whirring, 
gathering speed continually as the course lengthened into 
the thinly traversed streets. 

Onward they flew — over crossings, past wagons in a 
flash ; past street cars, autos, vehicles of all kinds and without 
number; past block after block, dingy and austre, shooting 
by like moving picture scenes ; up hill and down, over 
smooth asphaltum, jolting over cobbles, over rubbish, over 
everything imaginable; fleeing, fleeing, with policemen shout- 
ing at the driver to cease his mad race, and noting down the 
number for haling him into court. 

But on, ever on, they went, with silent tread, but wild 
whirring of the thing that gave it life; and still on, with a 
swerve and a turn, and a humming; past naked trees, tall 
gangling poles, beautiful residences, sere lawns, barns, stables, 
fences, open flelds and now wooded places, they traveled, 
with meteoric speed; up steep hills, down; up, across, over 
— ever on, at the same hair-raising flight, throwing mud and 
water and gravel with a furious splashing. 

At flrst, Edith and her companion supposed they were 
bounding homeward at the usual rate of progress in that 
direction when riding in the Jarney auto. But when Edith 
beheld new scenes — new objects, new places on the way, 
and Anally a countryside in its wintery dress, she became 
necessarily alarmed; and she was still more alarmed when 
she saw that darkness was hovering over the land, and they 
not yet home. Star, being composed and guided mostly 
by Edith’s actions, was not bothering herself, but when 
she saw Edith exhibiting intense anxiety, she, too, became 
alarmed. 

Whereupon, Edith attempted to attract the attention of 
the chauffeur to the strangeness of the places they were pass- 


90 


EDITH AND JOHN 


ing; but he paid no more heed to her calling than if she 
were not inside ; and he went on, ever faster, if possible. 
Edith opened the side door of the auto once, and put her 
head without, but owing to the swaying of the machine 
under the prodigiousness of its hurrying, she momentarily 
closed it again, fearing an accident. 

In the flight, Edith and Star paid no attention to the 
identity of the man at the steering wheel, believing that he 
was their old faithful one, who had gone quite crazy, or 
had met with hail companions, and had imbibed too freely. 

“Oh, oh. Star!” cried Edith; “if We do not stop that 
man there will be a terrible accident soon,” and she tapped 
on the plate glass window in front of her. 

“He must be crazy,” suggested Star. 

“Poor man, if I could only get at him, I would soon 
check the machine,” said Edith as the car turned a corner, 
throwing her into the arms of Star, who caught her, in her 
fright, and pressed her to her breast. Edith was in a very 
agitated state of mind, for their situation, seemed to her, to 
be of the most precarious kind. 

Star had already clasped Edith in her arms, but she 
wanted to hold her closer, if possible, to whisper consoling 
words. And as she was about to say a word of comfort, 
there was a sudden stoppage of the machine. They were 
thrown forward, and it turned on its side, buckling up like 
a crushed egg shell. All that Star remembered was a terrific 
crash, a grinding noise, and the breaking of glass — then 
darkness. 

Edith rose up from the middle of the road, stunned, dazed, 
bewildered. She stood a moment beholding the wreckage ; 
then, quickly surveying the scene, rushed to the ruined cab, 
from which she had been flung, and seized Star by the arm, 
and lifted her up and dragged her out. Star was uncon- 
scious. Edith administered a little dirty water, taken from 
a puddle in the road, to her face; and she soon recovered. 

“Are you hurt?” asked Edith, kneeling by her side, as 
she lay by the roadside. 

“Not much,” she replied. “Only had my wits knocked 
out a little; I am all right now. Are you hurt?” 

“Not much,” answered Edith, as she brushed back the 
hair that had fallen over Star’s face. Then Star arose. 

“Where are we?” she asked. 


EDITH AND JOHN 


91 


“We seem to be in the country,” replied Edith. “I see 
a house across the field a ways. We must have help, Star, at 
once. I do not see the chauffeur; he must have disappeared.” 

Edith now released Star, seeing that she was not hurt, 
and began to brush her clothing to remove some of the be- 
spatterment that came as a result of her dropping so miracu- 
lously in the mire of the highway. 

“The chauffeur may be under the car,” said Star. 

“Why, I do not see him; it is strange,” said Edith, as 
she walked about the car, and looked beneath it. “Let us 
search the weeds by the fence.” 

Carrying out the suggestion, the two young ladies, now 
fully recovered, but much excited still, began to tramp 
among the dead herbage by the fence. Edith plunged in 
among the weeds and thistles and briars, with as much cour- 
age as she would have shown in hunting for some piece of 
finery in her boudoir, having no regard for the dispoilment 
of her fine clothes any more than if they were of linsey- 
woolsey. Star climbed the fence and was treading down 
the reedage of the field with an earnestness of purpose that 
became her character to act her part well in any employment. 

“Here he is!” shouted Star, after trampling down a 
few square feet of bramble to get to a spot, where she 
thought she saw, while mounting the fence, a man’s coat. 
“He is dead!” The man was lying on his face, and Star 
stood over him. 

“Dead!” cried Edith, climbing the fence, and running 
toward Star, tearing her dress on the briars in her haste to 
join her friend. 

“Dead!” she repeated, as she took Star by the arm. 
“Dead! Poor man!” 

Both stood looking down upon him, wondering what next 
to do. Edith stooped down and turned him on his back. 

“Oh, Edith! He is my poor brother!” wildly cried Star. 

Edith arose, shocked by Star’s sudden outburst, wonder- 
ing what it all meant. Star knelt down by his side, and 
tenderly took up one of the dead man’s hands in hers. 

“He is dead! dead! dead! Poor brother!” she said sadly, 
with her tears falling over him. “We have found him alone, 
dear Edith, ourselves. God must have sent him on this wild 
ride to reach the pearly gates before his time. Poor 
brother! We did not know it was him. It is better that 
we did not know. Poor brother, he is dead!” 


92 


EDITH AND JOHN 


Edith bowed her head and wept in sympathy with the 
grief-stricken Star. 

The hollow face of Michael Barton turned up to them, 
like a Death’s Head, in the twilight. He was dead! And 
this loving sister never knew of the depravity of her fallen 
brother. It is probably well. For he must have his reckoning 
with his God. 


CHAPTEE XII. 

JOHN IS CALLED UPON AN EXTRAORDINARY MISSION. 

John Winthrope was sitting by his inelegant little table, 
and was reading, by the dim gas light, a new text book 
on modern business methods, and feeling perfectly con- 
tented and extremely happy over his prospects for the 
future, when there came three distinct and quickly repeated 
knocks at his door. The knocks were made apparently by 
a person impatient to gain admission. John dropped his 
book, ran to the door to ascertain the cause of the alarm, 
so significantly given, and threw it wide open. A messenger 
of the telephone company, standing in the hallway, handed 
him a message, and with it the additional information that 
he (the messenger) was to await an answer. Nervously 
John tore open the envelope, took out the contents, and 
read, with considerable trepidation, the following, dated 
eight p. m. : 

‘'Come at once to my Highland avenue residence. Hiram 
J arney . ’ ’ 

Without taking time to think or meditate for a frac- 
tional part of a second over the call, John hastily wrote 
out the following: “Will be on hand as soon as possible,” 
and gave it to the messenger, with the instruction to dis- 
patch it immediately upon arrival at the office. 

He then began grooming himself for the journey, so 
suddenly called upon to undertake. He could not conceive 
the urgent necessity of the summons, except in the light of 
his position as a servitor of Hiram Jarney, who, he thought, 
might have very important matters to look after that night. 
He pondered confusedly, while dressing, over what the busi- 


EDITH AND JOHN 


93 


ness might be that required attention so promptly, and at 
that late hour of the day. He had never been called on 
such a mission before; nor had he been instructed that he 
would, at any time, be requested to go to Mr. Jarney’s home 
on business. 

As he always dressed neatly and looked very tidy while 
on duty in the office, he deemed it advisable, on such an 
occasion, to don his best Sunday suit; for he did not know 
but that some fortuitous event might occur to take him into 
the presence of the young ladies, who had that day made 
such an impression on him. So in less than a half hour 
he was prepared to start, and in fifteen minutes more, so 
speedily did the taxicab travel with him inside, he was pull- 
ing at the ring in the bull’s nose at the Jarney front door. 

He had noticed, on ascending the high front steps lead- 
ing to the great piazza of the mansion, that people were 
moving about in the interior as if everybody and everything 
was in commotion; and this puzzled him. No sooner had he 
given the alarm, however, than the door flew open, and he 
saw a brazen man standing like a stature before him. It was 
evident that he was expected, for the flunkey, after receiv- 
ing his card, passed him in without ceremony, and without 
relieving him of his coat or hat. 

He now saw, at a glance, that something out of the 
common had happened. The maids and waiters were rush- 
ing about excitedly, and Mr. Jarney was pacing the floor 
with nervous movements; and the little bouncing lady, all 
in pink, was ringing her hands and crying. On seeing John, 
Mr. Jarney rushed up to him, with the tension gone from 
his nerves, and grasped him by the hand, saying: 

‘‘Mr. Winthrope, I am glad you have come — something 
has happened my daughter and Miss Barton. They have 
not been seen since leaving the office this afternoon.” 

John gasped. 

“What can I do to aid you, Mr. Jarney?” he asked. “I 
am glad to be of any service my help will avail.” 

“I do not know what has occurred to cause them to dis- 
appear so mysteriously,” answered Mr. Jarney. “We must 
And them, if possible, this night.” 

“Have you notified the police?” asked John, believing, 
like many people, that these hawkashaws of the law readily 
knew how to solve any kind of a mystery. 


94 


EDITH AND JOHN 


‘ ‘ I have already informed the police — miserable service 
we have — some two hours ago, and no tidings have thej* 
found/’ he replied, as he again took up his nervous walk, 
leaving Mrs. Jarney to talk with John. 

‘‘No clue?” asked John. 

“None whatever,” said Mr. Jarney, turning again to him. 

“It is strange,” said John. “Where is the chauffeur?” 

“Why, that rascal was off his seat, and a stranger is 
supposed to have driven the car away,” replied Mr. Jarney. 
“Beg your pardon, Mr. Winthrope, in my distraction I have 
so far forgotten myself to fail to introduce you to Mrs. 
Jarney.” This formality being then dispensed with, although 
John had already struck up a conversation with that lady, 
Mr. Jarney said, “Mr. Winthrope, I have called you here 
to lead a searching party for their recovery.” 

“Oh, Mr. Winthrope,” wailed the little lady; “I hope 
you can find them this night.” 

Just then a maid came rushing in with the information 
that Mr. Jarney was expressly wanted at the telephone. 

“It has been ringing all evening, and to no purpose,” 
said Mr. Jarney, impatiently; “answer it.” 

The maid retreated; but in a moment she returned again 
with the further information that a lady was at the other 
end of the line, and wanted especially to see Mr. Jarney, as 
the maid put it. 

Mr. Jarney begged John to accompany him to the phone 
room of his residence, and, when the former took down 
the receiver, he made the following replies to the voice at 
the oth:r end: 

“Hello! This is Mr. Jarney!” 

“Yes; this is he.” 

“Talk louder?” 

“Talk louder?” 

“I can’t hear yet!” 

“Who is this?” 

“Ed-d-Edith?” 

“God bless us!” 

“Where are you?” 

“At Mill vale? Good gracious!” 

“What the deuce are you doing there?” 

“You were!” 

“You did?” 


EDITH AND JOHN 


Do 


“Ah, she is safe?” 

“He is dead! Who is dead?” 

“Mike Barton?” 

“Killed! Accident!” 

“Farmer brought you to Millvale, eh?” 

“Coming in on the street cars, did you say?” 

“I’ll send Mr. Winthrope in a taxicab for you.” 

“Yes, he is here.” 

“Yes; he came out to direct a search for you.” 

“Wouldn’t know where to look for you?” 

“Never could have found you?” 

“You wait there till he arrives.” 

“Well; I thought you would be glad.” 

“Do with the body?” 

“Leave it there, of course.” 

“Yes; he will come at once.” 

“Good bye!” 

Putting up the receiver to disconnect the phone, Mr. 
Jarney called up the main office of the taxicab company, 
and ordered a cab post haste to his residence. Then turn- 
ing to John, he said: 

“It is very strange; very strange! Miss Barton’s brother 
was killed in an accident with my machine! Very strange, 
indeed.” 

John took the answer to the voice at the other end of 
the phone to mean a peremptory command for him to go; 
still he thought his services were not now particularly 
needed to conduct the lost ones home. Mr. Jarney simply 
wanted him to go and act as their body guard on this 
momentous night. John would have been glad of the 
opportunity to thank him for the new trust imposed in him 
had Mr. Jarney asked him to go; but as he did not make 
a request for his services, but a command instead, he took 
it to mean that he was to comply implicitly, as any faithful 
servant would have complied. 

When the taxicab arrived, and after John had been 
admonished repeatedly as to how to proceed, and loaded 
down with wraps and robes and other things, he made his 
exit and went upon his mission. 

Arriving at Millvale without incident, but feeling very 
much concerned as to how he should conduct himself with 
his charges, he found Edith and Star both laboring under 


96 


EDITH AND JOHN 


great mental and physical strain, as a consequence of their 
experiences, with Star at that moment the worse of the 
two, by reason of the tragic ending of her brother. Both 
young ladies were bedraggled. Their fine clothes were be- 
spattered with mud and their shoes soaked with water. 
They trembled from the strain, and shook from the cold. 
But John could do nothing at that hour to give them relief, 
except to wrap them up in blankets and bundle them into 
the cab; which he did with much tenderness and courteous 
behavior toward each, slighting neither in any little attention 
that would tend to their immediate comfort. Then, after 
giving orders for the disposition of the body of Mike Barton, 
he seated himself within the cab, and they were directly 
speeding homeward. 

On the way, Edith related to John, with many a break 
in her story, of all that had befallen them since leaving the 
ofiice that afternoon. 

“A very sad ending, indeed, for you. Miss Barton,’’ said 
John, after Edith had concluded. 

Star was not of an emotional nature, consequently she 
bore up imder the ordeal with great fortitude. She felt very 
sad; naturally, very sad. 

“It is a miracle that we both were not killed,” said 
Edith. “The car was left a total wreck by the roadside. 
It struck a telegraph pole in making a turn, and Star was 
struck unconscious, while I was thrown to the road. Star’s 
brother was thrown at least forty feet away, so terrific was 
his driving. ’ ’ 

“What impelled him to such a trick, do you suppose?” 
asked John. 

“I cannot fathom his motive,” answered Edith. 

“Nor I,” said Star. . “Poor boy!” 

“Perhaps he was unawares of whom you were,” sug- 
gested John; “and was out for a lark to give some one a 
scare.” 

“Poor boy!” said Star. “I will forgive him.” 

“Oh — my — I am so dizzy!” suddenly exclaimed Edith. 
“I do not know whether it is this car or my head that is 
whirling round so. Oh, o-o!” 

She was sliding forward on her seat, and her head was 
falling to one side. She sighed. “Oh-o-o!” she uttered. 
Sighed; then was quiet. 


EDITH AND JOHN 


97 


In the darkness of the cab John could not discern her 
movements plainly; but he knew, by her heavy breathing, 
that something was wrong with her. Star being in a very 
distressed condition herself, failed to understand or compre- 
hend the suffering signs of Edith; so John, noting all these 
things, lent his personal attentions to Edith, who was just 
then in a mortal state of suspended animation. 

John was very careful that he did not make himself pro- 
miscuous in either one’s behalf, except when the most immi- 
nent danger was confronting them. By the reflected lights 
of the streets, as they were whirled along, John caught a 
glimpse of Edith, and was not slow to see that she was in 
need of care from some source. He therefore caught her by 
the arms, just as she was senselessly keeling over, and raised 
her to a sitting posture. As he lifted her up, her head fell 
to one side ; but in a moment she roused herself and at- 
tempted to sit up straight. In another moment she lapsed 
unconscious, and limply declined into helplessness. 

At first, John placed her head on the cushion in the 
corner of the cab. Seeing this position made her look un- 
comfortable, he then put an arm around her, and laid her 
head upon his shoulder. Thus they rode for a brief time. 
Then he lifted up one of her gloved hands. Finding it wet 
and cold, with Star’s assistance he removed the gloves. After 
having chafed her hands, and rubbing them together to 
start up a circulation brisker than appeared to be natural, 
he drew his own heavy gloves over her quivering fingers. 
After which Star removed Edith’s shoes and stockings, and 
rubbed her cold damp feet, and wrapped a blanket around 
them. Shortly her blood resumed a freer circulation, and 
she roused herself, faintly asking where she was. 

‘‘We are on our way to your home,” answered John, re- 
moving his arm from around her. 

He acted voluntarily in this matter, always having the 
fear upon him that what he might be then doing for her 
would appear to be impertinent. But she was growing more 
serious, and in spite of his desire to withdraw his arm 
from her support, he was compelled to hold her more firmly 
than before. She was now breathing heavily and her hot 
breath he could feel in his face as her head lay on his shoul- 
der. She was like a child, and was beginning to mumble, 
and mutter inarticulate words, disconnected in their se- 


98 


EDITH AND JOHN 


quence, none of which could he form into intelligible sen- 
tences — except the two words, ‘‘Papa and mamma/’ Once 
he thought she was trying to say “Mr. Winthrope”; but he 
could not exactly tell. This troubled him some now, for 
his only thoughts toward her were of dutiful respect in this 
her hour of great trouble. 

They arrived home at last, with Edith still in a comatose 
state, and breathing like one entering into the dreadful sick- 
ness of pneumonia. She was hot and feverish. Her hands 
twitched nervously. She was muttering incoherently, but 
not ravingly. 

When the cab rolled up the driveway to the side en- 
trance of the mansion, John lifted Edith up in his arms, 
and, bidding Miss Barton to collect their effects together 
and follow, went into the brilliantly lighted hall. He was 
about to hand her over to her parents, but, by their direction, 
he continued, silently, with the father and mother, maids and 
physician coming after him, to her owm room, and there he 
laid her down upon her bed. 

As he released her, he gave one longing look at her 
pretty white face ; and trusted, in his heart of hearts, that 
her parents would tenderly care for her, and fetch her back 
to life and health. Then, bidding them a whispered adieu, 
he departed for his own simple abode, with some lingering 
regrets that he could not have stayed by her bedside and 
nursed her through her illness. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

SECRET WORKINGS OP THE SYSTEM. 

Peter Dieman was happier than usual one morning, if he 
could ever be called happy by any possibility of reading 
such a state of feeling in his otherwise perverse and irascible 
countenance. 

Happy! Well, Peter was never more happy in all his 
born days; but what the extent of that emotion might be- 
come in his after life was hard to predict at that time. When- 
ever he was in good humor, it was his never failing custom 
to puff at his pipe like a locomotive getting off a dead- 


EDITH AND JOHN 


99 


center, and to rub his hands with less expenditure of energy, 
and to squint his eyes with less vigor, and to shut his mouth 
with less desire to keep it closed. In fact, on such rare 
occasions, it might be said of him that he was in his sub- 
conscious region of retroflection, one peculiarly of his own 
conception. 

The cause of all his good humor was nothing more nor 
less than the refreshing information, imparted to him the 
day before by Jim Dalis, i. e., that Jim Dalis had decided to 
go to Europe. Ever since this enlightening piece of intelli- 
gence broke in upon the deepness of Peter’s outward density 
of intellect, that gentleman was in a high fever of unemo- 
tional genuflexion. Why, mortal man ! Peter sat in his 
chair all that night offering up his devotion to the Gods 
that They might be propitiated for Their timely intervention. 
And betimes eating cheese and crackers, and drinking beer, 
and surfeiting the air with the delicious fumes of his strong 
pipe. He was, as it were, riding on the back of Alborak into 
the Seventh Heaven of satisfaction. 

Not only did he offer up devotion to his Deity, but to 
other people’s Deity as well. Oh, ah, he would think often, 
but never utter; it being merely his manner of getting rid of 
superfluous enthusiasm. And his oh, ah’s extended on through 
the night, mixed with cheese, crackers, beer and smoke, to 
the hour of nine o’clock in the forenoon, at which time he 
suddenly aroused himself to the position of the hands on 
the dial of the dollar-clock that hung above his desk, where 
he could always keep his eyes on its horological exactness. 

Having noted the time, Eli, after having opened the shop 
without the least interference with his master’s meditations, 
was summarily summoned into the august presence of Peter 
through the tintinnabulating medium of a large iron spike 
applied to a piece of sounding brass suspended by a string 
from the ceiling on the right hand of his chair. Eli came to 
attention, with the alertness of an orderly, before Peter, and 
waited to be commanded. 

‘‘Call up 206070-m and tell him to come to my office by 
9 :45 sharp, ’ ’ said Peter in a less tragic tone than he had 
been used to in hurling his commands at Eli. 

“Yes, sir,” said Eli, departing. Directly he returned, 
stood attention, and said: “He will be here.” 

“Ha! Good!” cried Peter. “Go to work, you lazy 
scamp.” The last to Eli. 


100 


EDITH AND JOHN 


Peter sat still and mused on in the same barbarous man- 
ner, with only one change in the program of his devotions, 
and that was, that since 7:30 o’clock he had kept his face 
close to the peephole that gave him a view into his store, 
and upon Eli’s performances. 

With his sharp little eyes he saw the store, with all its 
junk and jumble; he saw poor imbecilic Eli skipping about 
with undying devotion in his heart; but his devotion was 
to serve his master, and serve him well he did. Verily, he 
saw everything within the store, almost ; at least what he 
did not see, he knew of, as if his eyes were optical divining 
rods. And he saw also beyond the confines of the four 
walls that bound him about during his personifying period of 
the devil : — He saw his henchmen going here and there, like 
earth-worms, through the devious passages of the dark and 
dangerous undermining of the civic welfare ; he saw the 
policemen on their beats, wielding their maces, as if he had 
as many hands as there were officers, and doing the execu- 
tion thereof himself ; he saw the aldermanic bodies sitting 
in grave deliberation on important or unimportant ques- 
tions, knowing well himself what their action might be on 
anything out of the purely routine order ; he saw the 
fawning sycophants, with their justifiable tale of complaint, 
being brushed aside by the higher hands; he saw the givers 
of tribute paying into the coffers of the system the doubloons 
of unwholesome preferment; he saw special privilege unsat- 
isfied, always; he saw the needy come up with their last 
dollar out of the depths of their nefarious haunts and lay 
it at the feet of the King of Graft; he saw the glow-worms 
of society in a trail of phosphorescent splendor making the 
welkin ring with the hallelujahs of their perfections; he saw 
the merchant, the lawyer, the doctor, the craftsman, the civic 
officer, the banker, the broker, the justice, the bailiff, the 
warden — all he saw bending to the power of the system in 
all its ramifying debasement. 

Aye, aye, he saw, too, the danger of it all to that system; 
to himself, to his friends, and to those who sat above him 
on the high throne erected to the debauchment of popular 
government, should Jim Dalis not be removed to some other 
ruler’s domains. And Jim must go; and he must remain 
away; and all those of his present tendencies must go, and 
they, too, must remain away, if money was all that were 
needed to that end. 


EDITH AND JOHN 


101 


While Peter was reflecting on all these things, there 
came into view in the store, the short stalky form of a man 
past middle life. He walked with a business air in his 
every movement directly into the presence of Eli, to whom 
he gave the pass, which was 206070-m, and then continued 
through the alleyways of junk to the black hole in the rear 
occupied by Peter. Arriving at the door, he stepped inside, 
took off his hat, and sat down, sniffing with some annoyance 
at the foul atmosphere. 

“Now, what is the game?” he asked Peter. 

“I want ten thousand by ten o’clock,” replied Peter, 
without any ceremonious introduction of the question. 

“That’s mighty short notice, I must say, Peter,” replied 
the man. 

“Fifteen minutes is time enough to rob any man or in- 
stitution,” answered Peter. 

“The pull on our purse strings is very great at present,” 
said the man. 

“Cut the strings,” retorted Peter. 

‘ ‘ Cut them, you all say ; but that won ’t preserve enough to 
pay the fiddlers,” responded the man. 

“Fiddlers be damned,” roared Peter; “we must get Jim 
Dalis out of the country.” 

“Is he wanting to squeal?” asked the man, with upraised 
eyebrows. 

“He is ready,” answered Peter. 

“Can’t he be staved off by bluff?” asked the man. 

“He’s best in Europe.” 

“Is he .going there?” 

“He’s going.” 

“When?” asked the man, bluntly. 

“Get the money, and buy a ticket also.” 

“Why, Peter, it will take a little more time than you 
have given to complete the transaction.” 

“You may have till 10:30 to fix it up.” 

“I will return at that time with the amount,” said the 
man, reflectively. 

The man was rising to pass out, when the tall figure of 
Jim Dalis entered. The latter halted, and stood a moment 
gazing at Peter and the man, with a contemptuous smile 
breaking up his smooth features. 

“Well, Jacob Cobb, you here?” he asked, with some 
asperity in his voice. 


102 


EDITH AND JOHN 


“Who else do you see, Jim Dalis, I would like to know, 
besides we three?” asked Jacob, for that is whom the man 
proved to be, and who was known to Peter only as 20G070-m ; 
and to his henchmen as the same. 

“You fellows are not turning a trick on me?” asked 
Jim Dalis, with suspicion. 

“We will be only too glad to get rid of you,” answered 
Peter. 

“And see you safely out of the country,” joined Cobb. 

“I think I should have more money,” remarked Jim; 
“ten thousand won’t last long in Europe, where you have to 
bribe every sonofagun who looks at you; it’s worse than 
Pittsburgh.” 

“How much more?” asked Peter, in alarm. 

“Twenty thousand ought to be sufficient,” answered Jim. 

“Bring three tickets, Cobb, reading from Pittsburgh to 
Paris, and twenty thousand,” said Peter. “And that’s the 
last sou I’ll give you, you cur.” 

“Don’t be too sure, Peter; I may ask for ten thousand 
more,” said Jim, independently. 

“You won’t get it,” barked Peter. “Get the tickets and 
the money, Cobb.” 

Jacob Cobb forthwith departed, going direct to a vault 
in one of the big banking institutions. Procuring the money, 
he purchased three tickets for Jim Jones and wife and daugh- 
ter. Returning with the tickets in his pocket, and the money 
safely lodged in the depths of an immense sack, he hiked it, 
with expeditious tread, to The Die; and thereat turned the 
sack, with its valuable contents, over to the lamentable Eli 
for secret delivery. 

In the office, Jacob Cobb confronted Jim Dalis with the 
three tickets, which that gentleman refused, at first, to 
accept without the accompanying “dough;” but being in- 
formed that that little feature of the transaction would be 
consummated through the faithful Eli, Jim returned to the 
store to be further set upon by more mysterious signs of 
secrecy as to the source of the money. 

On entering the store, Jacob threw the sack, with all its 
preciousness, under a bundle of other similar sacks, and told 
Eli to offer it for sale to the man in the office, who would, 
in a moment, be along to make a purchase in that article ot 
usefulness. So when Eli saw Jim Dalis approaching, not 
then being busy himself, he casually withdrew the sack, an l 


EDITH AND JOHN 


103 


laid it upon a table, and asked him if he did not want to 
purchase it. Only ten cents, he said, was asked for it. Didn’t 
he want it in his line of business, whatever that might be? 
Jim caught the cue, of course, and paid the ten cents with- 
out protest. After obtaining it, he returned to the office. 

“Good bye, Peter; good bye, Jacob,” he said, extending 
his hand. “I’ll be off this very day; but, remember, if I 
should run short in touring Europe, I expect more help from 
you two.” 

“You dog!” howled Peter. 

“Ah! you may ‘you dog’ all you want to now; I have 
you where I want you. I will see that as long as you fel- 
lows play the game, I am properly cared for — so long, gen- 
tlemen. ” 

With these parting remarks, Jim Dalis took his leave ; 
and in another twenty-four hours had vanished from his 
beaten tracks in the city that knew him so well. A news- 
paper announcement said that he had gone to Europe for his 
health. 

After Jim Dalis left that day, the implacable Peter turned 
upon Jacob Cobb and said: 

“We must raise the levy.” 

“It’s already reaching the high tide mark,” said Jacob. 

“We will let her reach it; then we will let her ebb, after 
this sum is raised,” said Peter, rubbing his hands. 

“But we may be drowmed in the flow before it turns,” 
answered Jacob, with emphasis on the may. 

“Let her drown,” replied Peter, resolutely. 

“We’ll go down in the wreck, if we get too reckless,” 
said Jacob, fearfully. 

“Who cares?” responded Peter, inexorably. 

“I care,” said Jacob, wdth some humility. 

“I don’t,” said the dogmatic Peter. 

“But I have daughters and a son,” protested Jacob. 

“No more than lots of other men,” replied the angry 
Peter, rubbing excitedly. 

“But look at the difference?” now pleaded Jacob. 

“There isn’t any,” snapped Peter. 

“Do you infer, Peter, that you will play false, too?” 
asked Jacob, seized with the impression that his fellow 
grafters would desert him. 

“I infer nothing; I act,” said Peter, turning to look out 
his place of espial. 


101 


EDITH AND JOHN 


“You think you are safe?” said Jacob. 

“I think nothing; I act. If I fail, I fail, and don’t cry!” 
he shouted. 

“You are exasperating, Peter; come, now, let’s get down 
to business — what will we raise it on first?” asked Jacob. 

“On every resort in town; I’ll send word tonight to my 
entire force to press on the screws,” answered Peter. 

“Good!” exclaimed Jacob, now in full accord with Peter’s 
views. 

“Have you seen Monroe?” asked Peter, now turning to 
a new subject. 

“Had a talk with him yesterday.” 

“What did he say?” 

“Said he was with us still.” 

“Can he be trusted?” 

“Without a doubt.” 

“Does Jarney know of his connection with us?” 

“No.” 

“Jarney, the goody-goody, must be made to pay for his 
knocking. ’ ’ 

“Monroe has been detailed to work on him,” said Jacob. 

“And you can trust to Monroe for that?” asked Peter. 

“I believe we can; but he is handicapped now by the 
firing of Jarney ’s old reliable secretary.” 

“He’s been fired? Who has he now?” 

“A young country bumpkin.” 

“Can’t you get him in your ranks?” asked Peter. 

“I fear not,” replied Jacob, with a shake of the head. 
“He’s been approached, and seems to be as susceptible as a 
cow.” 

“Ah, we must get rid of him, some way — get him out 
of Monroe’s way.” 

“That’s what Monroe will attempt to do,” said Jacob. 

“Can he do it?” asked Peter, squinting. 

“If he’s slick enough, he can; nobody else can get so 
near the scene of operation like Monroe.” 

“How’s Jarney ’s adopted daughter coming on in society?” 
asked Peter, with a faint attempt at smiling. 

“Pine, I hear,” answered Jacob, rising in his chair, and 
turning around with his back to Peter. 

“That’s a funny piece of business on Jarney ’s part,” 
said Peter, puffing very hard at his pipe. 


EDITH AND JOHN 


105 


‘‘His daughter took a fancy to her, on seeing her one 
day while slumming on the South Side, and she’s trying to 
make a lady of her,” said Jacob, sitting down again, after 
throwing away the stump of a cigar. 

“Can she do it?” asked Peter, with considerable interest. 

“She’s doing it,” responded Jacob, who noticed the 
change of Peter’s interest, which was now of the kindly kind. 

“God bless her!” exclaimed Peter, as he turned again to 
his ever present peephole expression. 

“Mike Barton’s dead,” said Jacob, slowly. 

“The devil!” shouted Peter, turning from his peephole. 

“Yes; didn’t you hear of it?” 

“No. How?” 

“Automobile accident.” 

“There are others to take his place,” said Peter, grunting 
like a satisfied pig after eating heartily. “How did it hap- 
pen?” 

“Stole Jarney’s auto, with the two young ladies in it; 
run it like h — to the country, to kidnap them, I suppose; 
ran into a telegraph pole — busted the machine, and busted 
his head.” 

“Poor wretch! I am glad he is gone, for his sister’s 
sake,” said Peter, sighing, which he could do sometimes. 

“Ah, I see you are very compassionate for the girl all at 
once,” said Jacob, eyeing Peter. 

“I have reasons to be,” replied Peter, spiritedly. “Were 
the girls hurt?” 

“No; but Edith Jarney is very ill — ” 

“Very ill! What?” interrupted Peter. 

“Brain fever, she’s got.” 

“Ah, she is too good to live,” said Peter, looking out 
his peephole again. Then turning quickly, with his peculiar 
little eyes turned up sidewise at Jacob, he said: “Say, 
Jacob, we must put our sleuths on the trail of that old 
drunkard, Billy Barton. He has been gone a long time, and 
not a single word from him.” 

“What do you want with the sot?” asked Jacob, mys- 
tified. “He’s no good.” 

“That’s my business — poor Billy,” and Peter lapsed into 
a moody spell, for sometimes he seemed to have a little of 
the feelings of a natural heart; but this quality in him was 
as rare as the air on Pike’s Peak. “His family must be 
cared for.” 


106 


EDITH AND JOHN 


“Jarney’s doing that,” answered Jacob. 

“Is he?” jerked out Peter, wrathfully. “ITl not allow 
it from him, the interloper!” 

“You are getting generous all at once, Peter; I should 
not begrudge him the privilege.” 

“Well, then, I don’t,” replied Peter, after a moment’s 
reflection. “Let him keep them; he owes it to them.” 

“It is time for me to be at my office, Peter; so good bye,” 
said Jacob, rising to leave. 

“Remember Monroe,” said Peter. 

“Oh, I’ll see to that,” said Jacob, as he went out. 

So are the “ropes” laid, as per the rule of things, to 
further the ends of the men who neither toil nor spin. Were 
the dear people less disposed to supine indifference toward 
their public officials, the government of our country would 
be as perfect, no doubt, as that of the fabled Utopia. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

JOHN WINTHROPE IS SURROUNDED BY PERPLEXITIES. 

The morbidly silent Monroe went about his duties with 
the serenity of a cat out on a dark night. The immobility 
of his starched face left no impression on the beholder of it 
as to whether he could be successfully punctured with the 
light of pleasantry. His feline movements from office to 
office among the clerical force east an uncanny glamour 
over them all; and when not in the act of always appearing 
to be ready to make a spring upon them, as he glided whis- 
peringly through the aisles of desks and high stands, he 
would be sitting at his own desk, in a corner of his private 
room, scanning sheet after sheet of reports and balances, 
and running over leaf after leaf of notations that had been 
left on his spindle for his especial perusal. 

He was a very precise man, very accurate, very pains- 
taking. He was a very obdurate man, very exacting, very 
positive. He was a very efficient man, very dependable, very 
obliging. He was a very incomprehensible man, very calcu- 
lating, very mysterious. And besides, he was by nature very 
crafty, revengeful and egotistic. None of which traits could 


EDITH AND JOHN 


107 


be read in his marble-like physiognomy; but they had to be 
worked out, to see them plainly, by a system of watching, 
and close scrutiny of his acts. He had risen in the office 
force from the bottom, and held his present post by right 
of apparent merit. 

No one under him, or above, for that matter, ever dreamed 
that behind his iron mask lay another man, unscrupulous 
and unfaithful. No one ever thought of him but that he 
was honest, upright and beyond reproach. No one ever 
thought of him being a depraved man, as being licentious, 
as being impure in thought and actions; because all these 
things were hidden under his bushel of contrarieties. 

At his desk, Mr. Monroe always worked with dispatch in 
disposing of the matters that daily came before him; and 
rarely could he be approached, except by the carrier of 
messages, or by an important personage, and then by an- 
nouncement — except the head of the firm, who, of course, 
had free access to his room. 

He was sitting, one day, enveloped in a great pile of 
work, when it was announced that Mr. Winthrope, the sec- 
retary, desired an audience with him. The secretary was 
admitted; but he was not asked to sit down. He stood before 
him in his own power; and he drew his own conclusions. 
But he said: 

‘‘Mr. Monroe, do you have at hand the balance sheet of 
last month?” 

“I can get it,” he answered, automatically. 

“Mr. Jarney desires to go over it again,” said John. 

Mr. Monroe procured the sheet, and stiffly handed it to 
John, with one of his stony stares. John took the sheet 
and left him. When he reached the door, going out, he 
turned and caught the stolid face of Monroe still upon him. 
Neither said a word. John went out. Mr. Monroe pressed 
a button. A short, heavy set, square shouldered man, with 
green eyes, answered the button’s call. He was Welty Morne, 
the head of the bookkeeping department. 

“Welty,” said Monroe, familiarly, “do you ever see the 
secretary after work hours?” 

“No.” 

“Do you know where he lives?” 

“At The King House, Diamond alley.” 

“He is never out at night, is he?” 


108 


EDITH AND JOHN 


‘‘I have never seen him.” 

‘‘He never associates with the boys, does he?” 

“He seems to be a seclusive chap,” said Welty. 

“Yes; and very selfish,” said Monroe, quietly. “Does he 
spend any money?” 

“Have no way of knowing — except, perhaps, he pays 
his board and rent.” 

“Let us call on him tonight, and initiate him; will you?” 

“I should like a little outing this disagreeable weather, 
and will be happy to join you,” replied Welty, with his green 
eyes beaming in anticipation of a lark. 

“Will you call at my place at nine p. m.?” 

“I will — whee-e-e!” 

Welty Morne retires. The button is pressed again. Bate 
Yenger, assistant to the head bookkeeper, enters. He sits 
down, and looks indolent. He is a slim chap, with a fair 
face and black eyes, which show indications of night-hawking, 

“Bate,” said the impressionless Monroe, “have you met 
the new secretary after work hours?” 

“Have not.” 

“Know anything of his habits?” 

“Nothing.” 

“Do you want to go on a lark tonight?” 

“Wouldn’t mind it.” 

“Then come to my place at nine p. m. ” 

Bate Yenger disappears. Monroe resumes his work. John 
returns the balance sheet, and hands it to Monroe. Monroe 
takes it, and scans it over. He sees some check-marks upon 
it. He folds it up, and puts it away. John remains a mo- 
ment, as if he would like to speak to Monroe; but Monroe 
does not speak. John, then, goes out. 

Promptly on the hour of nine p. m., Welty Morne and his 
boon companion. Bate Yenger, called at the apartments of 
Mr. Monroe at the St. Charles. That chunk of stiffness they 
found was ready, and together the three fared forth for a 
night of rounding. 

They called upon John Winthrope in his dingy quarters 
— a hideous contrast, they thought, to their own bright and 
luxurious living places. John was surprised, of course, to 
see them. Would he go out with them? Whither? For 
sight-seeing. 


EDITH AND JOHN 


109 


John looked at his open books and papers on his little 
table, glanced down at himself, half inclined to accept; but 
very perplexed about it. He hesitated, and then asked them 
into his room. They entered, but did not sit down, as there 
was only one chair, which later was preempted by Welty. 

‘'Why don’t you get decent quarters, Mr. Winthrope?” 
asked Welty, who was a lively and a very talkative fellow. 

“Cannot afford it,” answered John. 

“Oh, bosh! You receive as much, and more, than many 
of the other young men in our office, and the way they fly 
one would think they were millionaires’ sons,” replied 
Welty. 

“I have a mother and father to assist,” said John. 

“Won’t you go tonight; we will pay the way,” insisted 
the persuasive Welty. 

John still hesitated. He pondered a moment, and then 
replied: “No, thank you; I do not care to go.” 

“Just tonight, Mr. Winthrope; three is a company, and 
four is a crowd,” pursued Welty. 

“I thank you very much, Mr. Morne; but really, now, 
I do not care to go,” persisted John. 

During this ineffectual conversation, Monroe stood lean- 
ing against the door as passive as a tombstone, with Bate 
Yenger leaning awkwardly against the wall near him, look- 
ing as vapid as a snake in winter time. Welty was discon- 
certed, disappointed, and aggravated. At John’s last re- 
mark, he tried to hide his displeasure of it beneath a subtle 
smile that was a cross between sarcasm and disgust. John 
sat on the edge of his bed in a thoughtless mood, chewing 
the end of a tooth-pick. All four were silent for an uncom- 
fortable period of time. Then Welty broke the spell. 

“So you won’t join us?” he asked. 

“No; thank you; I do not care to go,” answered John. 

“Ah, he is not so easy as I thought,” said Monroe to 
himself. 

Silence followed. John sat still, masticating his tooth- 
pick, being little concerned as to how they took his answer. 
He wanted to be curt to them, by demeanor; and wished they 
would depart. For reasons of his own, which he considered 
private, as far as he was concerned, he did not desire their 
company under any circumstances. Therefore, while he 
aimed always to be polite to the triumvirate schemers, he 


110 


EDITH AND JOHN 


would rather show himself to be a boor than to have them 
about him. 

So, disgusted with John’s susceptibility to fall into their 
trap, and displeased at their own lack of tact, the three gen- 
tlemen went rattling down the stairs, and out into the street. 

''He’s a Sunday-schooler, all right,” said Welty, as they 
lined up side by side, with Monroe in between, to go down 
the avenue. 

"Aw, a cheap skate,” said Bate. 

After Monroe began to realize the abject failure of his 
scheme, and after the words of the other gentlemen had 
percolated through his adamantine head, he remarked, in 
reply to each of the other’s opinion, that Winthrope was a 
sissy, which application, it is readily seen, was not well 
placed; then he said: "He is an impeccable good-for-noth- 
ing. He needs to be shown a thing or two in this old town 
— but he will learn all right, like the rest of them. ’ ’ 

"You are a poor inveigler,” said Welty to Monroe, face- 
tiously. 

"My time, like that of all dogs, will come yet,” fc»aid 
Monroe. 

"Well; I would like to know your motive?” asked Welty. 

"Oh, I just wanted to get him limbered up a little,” 
answered the astute one. 

Thus being vanquished in his purpose, Monroe excused 
himself, after they had walked a few blocks, and retreated 
to his rooms, there to enter upon the duties of outlining a 
more ingenious campaign toward the destruction of John 
Winthrope ’s name, and to ruin his chances for continuing 
in the office of Jarney & Lowman. His first conceived plan 
was to get John Winthrope out of the way, in the head 
^office. This he could only hope to do by besmirching his 
•character, or cause him to commit some overt act of deport- 
ment that would be laid up against him in the eyes of Mr. 
Jarney. 

So, after being rebuffed in his first effort, Monroe con- 
cluded to take another tack, and would thereafter become 
and be John’s intimate friend, a good fellow towards him, 
and a hearty supporter of him before the firm, and thereby 
get results. These things he thought out pretty clearly, and 
definitely decided that on the morrow he would bombard 
the fort from another angle. 


EDITH AND JOHN 


111 


So on the morrow, as soon as Mr. Wintlirope had arrived, 
he was surprised to receive a polite little note, via the mes- 
senger, to call in the office of Mr. Monroe as early as con- 
venient, and without interference in his official capacity. 
Ever prompt in complying with such informal invitations 
(which he took it to be, instead of a command), and having 
time to spare before the arrival of Mr. Jarney, he repaired 
at once to the sanctum of Mr. Monroe. 

That gentleman, John was also surprised to see, had un- 
bended to such proportions, that, when John approached his 
desk, he arose, and shook hands with him, an heretofore 
unheard of performance of cordiality on Mr. Monroe’s part. 

‘H have asked you in, Mr. Winthrope,” said Monroe, ‘Ho 
apologize for intruding on you last night. It was only a 
whim of one of the boys out on a lark, with whom, unfor- 
tunately, I fell in with at the untimely hour.” 

“Oh, that is all right, Mr. Monroe,” replied John. “I 
took no offense at your visit.” 

“I thought, perhaps, you might have been offended.” 

“The fact is, I was very busy last night and forgot all 
about your intrusion after you had gone,” said John, smiling 
affably, but with noticeable indifference in his voice. 

“I should like to have your confidence, Mr. Winthrope,” 
said the wily one. “Inasmuch, as we are near to the head 
of the firm, we should be on better terms.” 

“Perhaps we should,” answered John, still indifferent. 

“I shall deem it a pleasure to have you call on me some 
evening, and accompany me to dinner; or, if you will set 
the time, I shall call on you.” 

“You are very kind, Mr. Monroe.” 

“May I call, or will you call?” 

“Neither,” replied John, without exhibiting a sign of 
what he meant. 

“Then, I am to understand, you do not court my com- 
pany?” said the unriiffied one. 

“No; not that, Mr. Monroe. I am very busy of evenings. 
Sometime I may accept your invitation ; but not for the 
present,” responded John. 

“What is it that so engrosses you of evenings, may I 
inquire?” asked the worming Monroe. 

“Yes; you may ask whatever you please — I am taking 
a post-graduate course in business on my own time,” said 
John. 


112 


EDITH AND JOHN 


‘‘To what end?” asked Monroe. 

“That I may be better prepared to perform my duties; 
for that reason I do not care to spare the time to go out.” 

“Very well, Mr. Winthrope; success to you,” said Monroe. 
“But may I not anticipate your company to dinner before 
very long?” 

“I cannot now decide, Mr. Monroe — not now; but will 
inform you of my decision at a later date,” replied John. 

Hearing Mr. Jarney enter his office at this juncture, John 
said good bye to the cat, and retired. He found Mr. Jarney 
tuned to a conversational degree that morning that perplexed 
him. Mr. Jarney dictated a few letters, beginning on them 
as was his custom, immediately after taking his seat, and 
looking over some important ones; then he lighted a cigar, 
and reared back in his chair in pleasant contemplation of 
the circles that he blew out and sent upwards like escaping 
halos. John sat regarding him for a few seconds with calm 
complacency; then, seeing that he did not intend to proceed 
further, for the present, with the dictation, said that he 
would retire and transcribe the letters. 

“No hurry, Mr. Winthrope; no hurry,” said Mr. Jarney, 
looking searchingly at John. “You are the most unfathom- 
able chap I ever saw, Mr. Winthrope,” he continued. “Here 
a week has gone by and you have not yet made inquiry about 
my daughter’s health.” 

John was astonished at this statement. 

“Mr. Jarney, I should have inquired,” he said; “but I 
felt it out of place for me to be so familiar with your family 
matters.” 

“Why so?” he asked, with sharpness. 

“I feared you might think me presumptuous,” replied 
John, timidly. 

“You presumptuous? I am not snobbish, Mr. Winthrope,” 
he returned. 

“Well, I felt that I would be keeping my place, by keep- 
ing silent,” said John. 

“I never mentioned the matter, Mr. Winthrope, because 
I wanted to see just how long you would be silent,” said 
Mr. Jarney. “And don’t you care to know?” 

“Why, Mr. Jarney, nothing would give me greater pleas- 
ure than to know that Miss Jarney is improving.” 

“She is not,” he said, despondently. 


EDITH AND JOHN 


113 


“Is she serious?’’ asked John. 

“Very serious,” he replied. Mr. Jarney must have no- 
ticed the pallor that stole over John’s face at this unwel- 
come information; but if he did not, he divined John’s eager- 
ness to know more of Edith’s complaint, and continued: 
“Yes, Mr. Winthrope, she is very serious. She has brain 
fever. The escapade of young Barton brought a great blow 
upon us all; for I have great fears of her recovery.” 

“Do the doctors give no hope?” asked John, eagerly. 

“No hope,” was the reply, as Mr. Jarney shook his head, 
and resuming his old demeanor of being affected by some 
inward impulses that had pervaded him for the week past. 

“I am very sorry, Mr. Jarney, that I did not know of 
this before now, so that I could have sympathized with you,” 
said John, feelingly. 

“I appreciate your modesty, Mr. Winthrope, in not in- 
quiring, and I deplore my disposition in not being more com- 
municative; for I knew all along you were anxious to know, 
after the kind services you rendered us by bringing her home,” 
said Mr. Jarney, speaking now with considerable emotion. 

“I know I should have inquired, Mr. Jarney, and was 
on the point of doing so several times, but I always felt 
that you were indifferent as to how I felt about the matter.” 

“Mr. Winthrope, I must be frank with you, for dear 
Edith’s sake, and tell you all. She — ” 

“ — not expected to recover,” interrupted John, bending 
forward intently. 

“No, that is not what I was about to say,” he replied, 
scanning John’s face. “While in a delirium, she repeatedly 
calls for you. Every day and every night she has been 
doing this, since you brought her home. We would have 
sent for you to come to see her had we believed your pres- 
ence would have been of any avail in bringing her to her 
reason. But, as the doctors said that is true in all such 
cases, we deferred to their advice. As her father, I do not 
believe their opinion is of much moment in her present crit- 
ical condition, so I am going to request you to accompany 
me to my home this evening for dinner, and incidentally you 
may see Edith, for what comfort she, or you, may have in 
such a meeting.” 

This was certainly startling information to Mr. Win- 
thrope. He had put through many fruitless hours wonder- 


114 


EDITH AND JOHN 


ing about the outcome of Edith’s illness, and suffered some 
pangs of heart thereby; but little did he dream, or antici- 
pate, that he could, in any manner, be considered by the 
lady, whose station in life was miles and miles above him. 
The statement of Mr. Jarney only caused him more regret, 
for he considered Edith’s use of his name, in her delirious 
hours, the wild fancies of an afflicted brain. And he was 
perplexed. 

‘Hf it is your wish, I shall be glad to go with you, Mr. 
Jarney,” said John, after gaining his composure. 

Mr. Jarney noticed the effect of what he said upon the 
young man, and he could not restrain from saying: shall 

deem it a pleasure; and I know it will be a great favor to 
Mrs. Jarney if you go.” 

“I shall go,” he said. 

‘‘Then we will leave the office early,” said Mr. Jarney. 

“May I have time to dress?” asked John. 

“All the time you require, Mr. Winthrope. You may leave 
the office at three, and be ready to go at four.” 

“Thank you; I will be ready,” returned John, as he 
gathered up his note book and papers, and repaired to his 
office. 


CHAPTER XV. 

WHAT DOES THE HEART SAY? 

An auto being in waiting at the curb, and John being 
ready at the appointed time, he and Mr. Jarney joined each 
other at the main entrance of the office building ; and together 
were whirled away, in a twinkling, toward the mansion on 
the hill. 

This was the second time that he had been summoned 
to that palace of a Croesus; for a second time he went, not 
of his own volition; for a second time he. drew near the 
place, with a strange feeling in his soul; and he wondered 
if Fate, after all, is not a strange outliner of one’s life. 
The first time, a deep mystery surrounded his sudden sum- 
moning, ending with a very romantic sequel; the second 
time, the cause leading up to his going was as deep a mystery 


EDITH AND JOHN 


115 


as the first, with no telling what the climax might be. So, 
with these thoughts alone passing through his head as he 
rode silently by the side of his superior through the whizzing 
wind and beating rain and whirling smoke, he was not a 
little agitated when the chauffeur drew up at the side door, 
and the master had stepped out, and he was bidden to follow. 

He remembered well that entrance on the former occasion, 
in the night, with its beaming lights and glistening panels 
of glass and brilliancy of the interior reflecting over him in 
his amazement. He remembered very well the gliding 
through the rooms of the family and the attendants, like 
roving spirits in despair in a fairy bower. He remembered 
all these things through the eye of the night : — of his sud- 
den departure from the mansion; of his mission through the 
space of miles, and his quick return, and triumphant end — 
for the sake of duty. All these things he recalled, as if 
ruminating on a hazy dream. But when he came the second 
time, in the gloom of the late afternoon, and seeing the 
sombreness of the walls, the doors, the porches, the lawn 
and everything, stripped of the glare of artificial light, he 
felt that within the house a similar gloom prevailed. 

He followed Mr. Jarney, now with a palpitating heart. 
The valet took his coat and hat and umbrella; and he was 
escorted to the warmth, the cheer, the beauty, the radiance, 
the grandeur of the parlor, and was begged to be seated. 
And he saw that the house was as silent as a morgue; he 
saw the long faces of the servants, and noted their confi- 
dential looks and glances toward him; he saw that the lights 
were burning dimly, and as they might burn for several 
days to come; he saw friends of the family glide in like 
spectres, with inquiring faces, and whisper, and saw them 
depart as silently; he saw the piano was closed, and the 
music piled up. He saw Mrs. Jarney coming down the great 
white stairway, darkly clothed, with tear-stained eyes and 
tired movements. He felt the oppressive dread that was over 
all. And he trembled. 

Mrs. Jarney approached him, with Mr. Jarney at her 
side, he having met her at the foot of the stairs. John arose 
as she put out her hand, and when he shook it, he noticed 
that she was excessively perturbed. 

'‘I am very happy to see you, Mr. Winthrope,” she said, 
with some effort. wish to thank you for your services 


116 


EDITH AND JOHN 


in behalf of my daughter on that dreadful evening/^ 

“You have my sincere sympathy, Mrs. Jarney,’’ responded 
John. “May I inquire if Miss Jarney is improving?’’ 

“No improvement, Mr. Winthrope, that we can see,” she 
replied. 

“Is it so that Mr. Winthrope can see her?” asked Mr. 
Jarney of his wife. 

“He may go now, if he does not feel it too great a favor 
to us,” replied Mrs. Jarney, wiping away her tears. 

“I assure you, Mrs. Jarney,” said John, “that I do not 
hold such a matter in the light of favor; but as a matter of 
the gravest importance to you both.” 

“Mr. Winthrope,” said Mrs. Jarney, placing her hand 
upon his arm, “there are trials in this life, to a mother, 
which no man can understand; and this is one of them. 
We have asked you to come here because we believe in you, 
because we know and feel that you are good. Do not think 
that we are not under obligations to you, and that my dear 
Edith will not be thankful to you, if she recovers. We know 
and you know that your coming is by reason of unusual cir- 
cumstances; and as her mother, I do not want you to think, 
Mr. Winthrope, that my emotions have gone beyond my 
reason. She has called your name so many times that I 
could not bear to hear it longer without you coming here. 
I fancied, at first, that it was, as the doctors have said, only 
the fancy of an afflicted brain; but I believe it is more than 
that. I beg your pardon, Mr. Winthrope, if I have spoken 
too plainly. Now, if you are ready we will proceed to her 
room.” 

John was proud himself, though poor. He was proud of 
his good name; proud of his old father and mother, and his 
own dear sister and brother in the mountains ; he was proud 
that others held him in high esteem; proud of their friendly 
consideration, of the confidence in which they held him, and 
of their frankness. When Mr. Jarney first broached the sub- 
ject of his going to see his daughter, he took it as a question 
of duty, albeit he was not altogether dum to its influence on 
his heart; and when Mrs. Jarney spoke to him, with even 
more freedom than her husband, he could not resist the 
effect any longer. 

He therefore went up the stairs in a state of mind that 
was a mixture between despair and hope. He was preceded 


EDITH AND JOHN 


IIT 


by the parents of Edith. They passed through a hall be- 
wildering to John in its elegance, he following, and at length 
came to the door of a bed room. Mrs. Jarney opened it, and 
they silently filed within, like going into the chamber of the 
dead, so softly did they move. 

At one side of a bed sat a nurse, on the other sat Star 
Barton, faithful in her bleeding heart. On the bed lay the 
fevered form of Edith in snowy whiteness. To the beholders 
she was like a transporting angel, only the flush of life was 
in her cheeks — the flush of her affliction. Her white hands 
lay twitching over the coverlets. Her face was upturned, 
her blue eyes staring, her lips mumbling indistinct words. 
She was apparently dead to all things mortal. No wonder 
Star was in tears; no wonder the parents felt a dread shud- 
der pass through them; no wonder the nurse had a solemn 
face; for the spirit of this pure young woman seemed to be 
passing, passing. 

John was not unmoved by the scene, for even his brave 
strong heart sent forth a sigh. The parents stood by the 
bedside looking down upon their unconscious child in her 
struggle. After a few moments Mr. Jarney turned to John, 
and whispered: 

“We will leave you alone with her and her friend. Miss 
Barton.” 

Then they went out, and the nurse went out. John spoke 
a word of recognition to Star, and drew a chair up to the 
bed and sat down, looking meditatively at Edith. 

“Has she been unconscious since the night I brought her 
here?’’ asked John. 

“Almost all the time,” answered Star. “Sometimes she 
is rational — then she calls for you.” 

“If she should become rational while I am here, and 
should see me, do you think ray being here would have any 
beneficial effect upon her?” asked John. 

“That is the opinion of her parents,” replied Star. 

“You appear to be pretty well worn out by your vigil. 
Miss Barton.” said John, turning to her, sitting close by 
his side. 

“I have been in this room ever since she took ill, or since 
you brought her here,” answered Star. 

“Haven’t you taken any rest?” asked John, dubious about 
her statement. 


118 


EDITH AND JOHN 


“I lie down on the couch there sometimes,” pointing to 
one in the room; “hi '• I cannot sleep.” 

“I fear the trial will be too much for you, Miss Barton.” 

“Oh, it is no trial for me to sit here, where I can see 
her dear face all the time,” responded Star, and then she 
burst into tears, and John could hardly restrain his own 
from flowing, through his deep sympathy for her in her sim- 
ple faith. 

Just then Edith turned her face toward them, and gazed 
wildly about with her pretty blue eyes rolling in their sock- 
ets. Then she threw one hand over the side of the bed. John 
lifted it up tenderly, and laid it back in place, and then it 
was that he became aware of how feverish she was. Edith 
mumbled something. 

“She is making an effort to speak your name,” said Star, 
who was now used to her strange fancyings, and could in- 
terpret almost any unintelligible word she spoke. Then 
bending over Edith, she said: “He is here, dear Edith.” 

Edith looked up at Star, with what appeared to be a 
faint smile. Star took one hand, and held it, patting it 
lovingly. “Here he is, dear Edith; don’t you see him?” 
she said, as Edith now uttered the name distinctly. 

Edith paid no heed to Star, but rolled her head and 
muttered John’s name. Then she became calmer, and lay 
still; arousing herself after a few minutes, and repeating 
the name again. 

“He is here, Edith, by your bedside; can’t you see?” 
said Star, bending over her. “Come closer, Mr. Winthrope, 
that she might see you.” 

John thereat moved nearer to the bed, and leaned over 
her. 

“Here is Mr. Winthrope, Edith,” said Star, as she 
placed a hand upon her hot forehead. 

Edith turned her head, and sighed. Her eyes ceased 
their starey look. She became calmer; sighed again. Then, 
without assistance, she raised herself up, and her long hair 
fell over her shoulders. In her illness now, John thought 
she was prettier than before when he saw her in her best 
of health. As she arose, Star caught her by the shoulders, 
and made an attempt to lay her down on her pillow again; 
but Edith shook her off, with her fever-strength supreme 
in her. She then crossed her hands before her, bent her 


EDITH AND JOHN 


119 


head forward; then threw it backward, and gazed across 
the room to the farther wall, like one staring into the 
infinitude of time in its blankness. 

John sat watching her, moved to piteous supplication 
for this fair young lady in her distress of mind. 

“Star,” said Edith, turning upon Miss Barton, in a 
strange clear voice, “have you seen Mr. Winthrope?” 

“Here he is, dear Edith,” replied Star, stroking her hair. 
“Here by your bed; don’t you see him?” 

“That is not Mr. Winthrope,” she answered, in the 
same strange tone. 

“No, no, dear Edith; he is here — Mr. Winthrope look 
into her face?” said Star, turning to John, whose head was 
bowed under the weight of the impression that this girl’s 
ravings made on him. John obeyed Star’s request, and 
looked Edith in the face. Edith then put out a hand, and 
touched that of his ; then fell back, burying her head in 
her soft pillow, with her hands over her face. 

“She knows you,” whispered Star. 

“Shall I retire?” asked John, believing that the crisis 
had been reached. 

“Oh. not yet,” answered Star. Then leaning over Edith 
again, said: “Edith, do you want to see Mr. Winthrope 
again before he goes?” 

Edith reached out a hand toward him, turned her head, 
and let her eyes move slowly in his direction. Then she 
laid her hand upon his. He picked it up, and she permitted 
him to hold it. 

“Mr. Winthrope?” she said. 

“I am he,” he replied. 

She smiled, and her eyes became less roving. “I am 
better,” she whispered. 

“Edith, I knew you would be better as soon as he came,” 
said Star, kissing her. “Are you not glad, Mr. Winthrope?” 
asked Star of him. 

“Very, very,” he responded. He touched his lips to her 
fevered hand; and how it thrilled him. 

“Now, you may retire, if you wish,” said Star. 

“Will you come again?” said Edith, in a very low voice; 
“often; often?” 

“If I am permitted,” replied John, releasing her hand, 
and rising. 


120 


EDITH AND JOHN 


“You have my permission,” whispered Edith, feebly 
attempting to smile. “Oh, I am so weak, I am afraid it 
will be such a long time before I can leave this bed.” Turn- 
ing to Star, she said: “Have mamma keep him for dinner, 
if it is near that time — or breakfast, or lunch.” 

“He will remain,” answered Star. 

“You will come in before you go — you will come again, 
Mr. Winthrope?” asked Edith, faintly. 

“By your father’s permission,” he answered, smiling 
down upon her. 

“He will permit you,” said Edith. 

“Good bye,” said John, taking Edith’s hand again. 

“Good bye; don’t fail to come in again before you go?” 
said Edith. 

“I shall come,” he said, kissing her lily hand; after 
which he lay it down with the greatest reluctance. 

Then he left her, with a world of thrilling emotions con- 
suming him. Seeing no one in the hallway, he proceeded alone 
down the stairs to the parlor, there to be met by the gloomy 
countenances of Edith’s loving parents, who were at that 
moment in such a distracted state of mind that they almost 
collapsed over wrong expectations over this singular meet- 
ing of their daughter with John Winthrope. Both rose as 
they saw John approaching, and sighed. 

“How is she?” both asked together. 

“Better,” was John’s response. 

Mr. Jarney took John by the hand, and said: “How 
greatly relieved I am.” Mrs. Jarney did not wait for further 
information; but ran up the stairs, and went headlong into 
her daughter’s room. 

“Oh, my child! my child!” she cried in the excess of 
her joy, seeing the token of rationality in Edith’s face. 
She fell on the bed by Edith’s side, almost in a faint, throw- 
ing her arms about her. Edith was not in condition to 
withstand such a stormy outburst of motherly affection. 
Star, understanding the bad effect such extreme commo- 
tion might have upon her charge, persuaded Mrs. Jarney 
to be calm, and all would be well. 

“Did you know him, Edith?” asked her mother, still 
mentally agitated. 

“Yes, mamma,” replied Edith, so low she could hardly 
be heard. 


EDITH AND JOHN 


121 


“Was it he that effected a cure, Edith?” 

“Oh, mamma, I am not well yet,” said Edith; “and it 
may be a long time before I get out of this.” 

“Was it he, Edith, that brought about the crisis?” per- 
sisted the mother. 

“It might have been, mamma,” said Edith. 

“Edith, are you keeping a secret from me?” pursued 
her mother. 

“Dear mamma, I cannot bear up, if you keep on,” whis- 
pered Edith, growing restless. 

“Mrs. Jarney, it would be best not to disturb her any 
more; she needs sleep,” said Star, advisedly. 

Mrs. Jarney, realizing her mistaken enthusiasm, quieted 
down, and slipped out of the room, and bustled down the 
stairs in an uncontrollable plight of flusteration. She 
rushed up to Mr. Winthrope, and was almost in the act of 
embracing that young gentleman, who had earned his way 
unconsciously into her faver to such proportions that the 
good lady could not keep away from him all evening. In 
verity, Mrs. Jarney was so dignifiedly considerate that she 
would have, under the spur of the stimulent of joy, given 
her consent right then to John becoming a permanent mem- 
ber of her household (had he thought of asking that 
privilege of her) had it not have been that a little bit of 
money-pride overbalanced her gratitude. And, in truth, 
too. Mr. Jarney might have fallen under the same magic 
that John had also cast over him, had it not have been 
that his pride was a little greater than he could consist- 
ently overcome. But this did not prevent Mr. Jarney from 
showering upon John encomiums of all kinds for the rest 
of his stay in the house that evening. 

John, being prodigiously sensitive on the matter of the 
propriety of a thing done, was with difficulty persuaded in 
his own mind that Edith’s wish was any more than a good 
woman ’s gratefulness. Although he made a great effort 
that evening to keep down the blazing fires of the one 
great human passion, he could not extinguish them alto- 
gether, for the more he thought of the cause that led up 
to his coming there, the fiercer the coals blazed within him: 
till his soul was almost afire. 

Dinner was eaten in great state, the first of the kind 
for John; but he, being an adaptable young man, was 


122 


EDITH AND JOHN 


equal to anything that confronted him. And while dining, 
he did not fail to notice the changed spirits of all the in- 
mates of the house, from the head of it down to the waiter; 
for the later were profuse in showing him deference, in 
their looks and actions; he did not fail to notice the change 
in the lights that gave back a much more cheerful caress, 
where before they were feebly lifeless; he did not fail to 
notice the change in the countenances of the friends of the 
family, who came in with a deadening look, and went out 
with a smile; he did not fail to notice all these things; 
nor could he help but feel that he was the one person who 
might have brought it about. In consequence, he passed 
through the evening in the ascending mood of rapturous 
delight ; but, though, always with a fear — a fear bound 
up in one corner of his heart — that he was only being re- 
warded for his services as the servant of this great man 
of money, the father of Edith. But John, do not despair; 
there are worse people in this world, who are rich, than 
the Jarneys. 

John kept his promise, and called to see Edith just be- 
fore he was ready to leave the mansion. She was sleeping 
when he was let into the darkened room ; and when he 
looked down upon her, in her purity, dreaming, perhaps 
of him, he felt the power of love that was bearing him 
down. Were everything made of sweet toned bells, and 
they were every one ringing, no greater would be the alarum 
than that which at that moment knelled through him. The 
fear of death coming to her, the fear of her loss should 
she come back to life, the fear of those who brought her 
into the world, the fear of Fate, the fear of Chance, struck 
him dumb. Would her death be worse than life? he thought; 
would her life be worse than death? Sleeping calmly, peace- 
fully, without a murmur from her lips; breathing lightly, 
evenly, without a break in the respiration; resting now as 
if the angels had brought a cure from out the skies — John 
felt the holy thrall which controlled him. 

He knelt down by the bed, and took her white hand in 
his, and tears of his mercy wet her limp fingers; and he 
prayed. 

Then, rising, with his heart too full to speak, he turned 
to the door to leave. Miss Barton, seeing his agitation, 
came up to speak to him, with her eyes also filled with tears! 


EDITH AND JOHN 


123 


“Wait till she awakes,’’ she said. 

“I cannot,” he replied. 

“She expects to see you before you go.” 
“Tell her — ” and he was gone. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

BILLY BARTON’S FLIGHT. 

When Billy Barton left his home and family, he went 
without a clue to his destination; and he left no word be- 
hind of his going. 

The world to him had been a series of degenerating 
allurements ever since he could remember anything ; and 
Evil Repute was the sum of his reward. He was brought 
up amid the scenes of the river’s traffic as a wharf man, 
or roustabout ; and was called the waterman, by reason 
of an ineradicable habit he had of invariably falling into 
the stream when intoxicated. This predilection of Billy’s 
might have cured such a failing in any other man ; 
but the more often Billy fell into the river the less inclined 
he was to accept the water cure. The frequency of these 
periodic immersions grew to such dimensions that his quali- 
fications as a wharf man became nil, and he thereby lost his 
right to a permanancy among the gang, causing him, one 
day early in his years, to be placed on the reserve list to 
take his chances for obtaining work as an extra. 

Billy was like many another man of his class: he had 
no inclination to reach a higher level, or lacked the ability 
to go higher; and by these well developed attributes, in 
him, he found it pretty hard picking among the dispensers 
of jobs. It appears that he was continually in ill-luck, 
when it came to making assignments for the long line of 
men in waiting. Sometimes he would put in a day or so of 
work, with a disposition to be light-hearted over his luck; 
but it very often happened that when he was wanted, he 
was under the influence of drink; or had just recovered him- 
self from a baptism in the river; and so he was many times 
overlooked. This vicarious situation did .not tend to better 
his condition. It only made him worse. What between his 


124 


EDITH AND JOHN 


few spells of work, and his numerous spells of sprees, he 
had a petty sum left on which to keep his growing family. 

Billy Barton was a very clever man in his sober mo- 
ments; but so seldom was he ever in that state of good 
behavior, that his cleverness was overlooked even by his 
most intimates. What is hereof meant by this use of the 
word clever, is that it was applied to him in the vernacular 
sense, and not in its strict usage. So when in that state 
of temporary sanity, he was ever ready with a rough wit of 
the hang-dog style — the wit of the waterfront, of the grog 
shop, of the slums, of the rough-and-ready characters of 
his calling; and this he carried to his home, very often to 
his sorrow. He used to tell the “boys” that he had an 
“old woman” who could give any one spades in cards in 
her fetching ways toward general cussedness. But Billy 
would condone all that poor woman’s incapacities, when- 
ever he would get drunk, and, with a great display of imag- 
inary wealth, which he said he would fall heir to some 
day, impress upon her impressionable mind the beauties of 
their future. 

Thus by such tactics, he, for a number of years, kept 
her hopefully on the high wave of anticipation and expec- 
tation. This trait of Billy’s was one of his redeeming 
qualities, if he ever had any other; so much so that ere 
he had reached his present age of discretion, he began really 
to believe that he was as rich as the man in the mansion 
on the hill; which mansion he always kept a weather’s eye 
out for, no difference how much smoke or fog clouded his 
sense of perception. 

But Kate Barton, long ago, began to realize that his 
tantalizing predictions and promises were merely vaporings. 
So, when things with her became inordinately unbearable, 
she began to attempt a reformation of him by the process 
of her voluableless tongue. At first she scolded him gent- 
ly; then firmly, then remorselessly; tongue-lashed him; be- 
rated him from Soho to McKee’s Rocks; and, finally, seeing 
that this method was without effect, adopted the corporal 
punishment plan. But by no such inducements, however, could 
she prevail upon him to reform, and act the true part of a 
husband and father. Thus, being in an environment that 
would, without a doubt, corrupt old Satan himself, Billy 
went from bad to worse, and from worse to the finite de- 


EDITH AND JOHN 


125 


gree of dissipation. Resorting to the saloons as a solace 
for his sorrows, he there found out, when too late, that as 
long as he had a penny he could secure the required con- 
solation that he craved. Ultimately, reaching an end in this 
direction, he became obsessed with the desire to flee. And 
flee he did. 

Any one standing, at any point, on the south side of 
the Smithfleld street bridge, on the day of his departure, 
might have seen the bent form of a once well built, square- 
shouldered, red-faced, blue-eyed man, wearing a slouch 
hat, check shirt, blue overalls, faded coat, and brogans on 
his feet, and a rusty overcoat on his arm, aimlessly walking 
across it, going northward. Had he been followed, the 
observer would have seen him turn up Second avenue, with 
the same shambling gait, and with his nose directed toward 
the devious ways of Soho. 

They would have seen him wind in and out among the 
alley ways and bypaths between the mills and factories and 
shops, have heard him ask for work, and have heard the 
answer, '‘Don’t want you.” They would have seen him 
come out into the street, stop, hesitate ; go on, with the 
same determination in his bleary eyes. They would have 
seen him continuing, with an inquiry here and there; they 
would have seen him brushed aside, and go on. They would 
have seen him treading the ties of the Baltimore & Ohio, 
through the interminable region of noise — of belching fur- 
naces, of rattling factories, of shouting men, of screeching 
engines, mile after mile. They would have seen him stop 
at a poor man’s house — one almost like his own — and 
heard him ask for food and bed, and would have seen him 
receive it, sometimes. They would have seen him stop, and 
rest, and meditate ; have seen him sneered at, chased by 
policemen, stoned by boys, hooted by rufflans, scolded by 
women; have seen him rejected, dejected, despondent, and 
in despair — a weary wayfarer, an outcast, discarded by 
his family, condemned by his fellow man — a human wreck, 
with not a hand outstretched to him to lend him the aid 
and encouragement that he needed in that hour — except, 
perhaps, the hand of the Almighty, in retribution. 

And more; they would have seen Billy Barton go through 
the suburbs of Glenwood, Hazelwood, Rankin; through the 
boroughs of Braddock, of Homestead, of Duquesne, and on 


126 


EDITH AND JOHN 


to McKeesport, meeting always with the same inglorious 
reception — day after day, week after week, asking, beg- 
ging, starving. They would have seen him sleeping in de- 
serted buildings, in fields, in box cars; by the roadsides, 
on the hillsides, in the woods; everywhere where man was 
not, save some stragglers of his own ilk. They would have 
seen him eventually entering saloons in the slum quarters; 
have seen him set upon, beaten, kicked and thrown into 
the streets, a poor worthless cuss, too vile, even now, for 
any of his former cronies to recognize, had they chanced 
across him. They would, as a climax to his wanderings, 
have seen him dragged into a town’s nasty, filthy, foul, 
venom-infested jail, there to await the merciful order of 
a just and honest judge, who might, peradventure, take 
compassion on him; and, as a finality, have seen him sen- 
tenced to penal servitude as a vagrant. 

Holy of Holies ! praise be to God ! cry the keepers of 
the loaves and fishes ! But for the goodness of a pure 
young woman, his children might have starved. And say 
that the male-man is a generous creature! 

In the little black office of The Die, Peter sat humped 
up, like a drooling ape, scanning the interior of his junk 
shop through his peephole. He saw the cringing Eli, like a 
witless ass, having another set-to with a short stalky fellow 
because he did not give the password. He saw Eli floored, 
and thumped in the ribs by the man’s foot. Whereat Peter 
gathered up his courage and went out to ascertain the 
wherefor of the disturbance. 

“Hah, Welty Morne,” whispered Peter, seeing who the 
man was; “come in;” and he waddled rearward, leaving 
the defeated servant to readjust himself as to how he may. 

“Set down,” said he to Welty, after falling down him- 
self like a bloated lobster, and taking up his pipe, and 
espionage. “What? What now?” he asked. 

“We have heard at last from Billy Barton,” said Welty. 

“ Where ’d you get that information? The wretch!” 
roared Peter, sardonically. 

“Prom Monroe.” 

“And Monroe?” 

“From Cobb.” 

“And Cobb?” 

“From the warden.” 


EDITH AND JOHN 


127 


‘ ‘ The wretch ! ’ ’ shouted Peter. ‘ ‘ Let him die there ! 

What’s his time?” 

“Six months.” 

“Good! We’ll make it six more.” 

“Am I to return that information?” asked Welty. 

“Yes,” snapped Peter. “What else from Monroe?” 

“He has failed to rope in Winthrope.” 

“What next?” 

“His new scheme is to put him as treasurer of the com- 
pany.” 

“Good! Go to it, tell him. How’s the girl?” 

“Jarney took the young man to his home to see her, and 
she is recovering.” 

Peter frowned at this, that is at that part of the infor- 
mation relating to taking Winthrope to the Jarney home. 
He rubbed his hands, pulled at his pipe vigorously, almost 
spat on Welty in an effort to reach a saw-dust box used 
as a receptacle for his expectorations. 

“She’s a mighty fine girl,” said Peter. “What does 
Monroe draw from that incident?” 

“That Winthrope has inclinations toward her.” 

“And her father?” asked Peter. 

“He permits it.” 

“Why don’t young Cobb push his suit?” asked Peter. 

“Oh, she would never have anything to do with him.” 

“Why doesn’t he get Winthrope out of the way!” ex- 
claimed Peter. 

“He is laying the ropes to ensnare him,” said Welty, 
showing his teeth like a grinning dog, and flashing his 
green eyes. 

“What else?” asked Peter, ceasing to rub his hands, and 
looking up at Welty with some anxiety. 

“There’s going to be a strike on all the papers,” replied 
Welty. 

“Oh, that’s all fixed up,” said Peter, with consuming 
pride (judging from the speed he rubbed his hands). “The 
police have instructions to arrest every dog of them so 
soon as they step out of their jobs. What else?” 

“An extra levy has been made on the red-lighters,” 
replied Welty. 

“Good!” exploded Peter. “Tell Monroe to watch out for 
flurries among them.” 

“They will all come through.” 


128 


EDITH AND JOHN 


“Hah, I thought Jacob would bring them to time,’’ 
whispered Peter. “How’s he coming with his new company?” 

“He’ll have a million to float in a week.” 

“Why didn’t he make it ten?” asked Peter. 

“He’s afraid the people are getting weary with so much 
stock already on the market.” 

“The coal combine went,” said Peter, smiling. 

“But that was the project of the other gang,” said Welty. 

“Well, I got my tribute, as well as Jacob, for our little 
assistance,” he answered, with more fierce rubbing. 

“Ah, they will all pay — that is, the big ones.” 

“Some of the little ones, too, eh?” said Peter. 

“Where do I come in, Peter?” suddenly asked Welty. 
This question caused Peter to look up quickly, with a leer. 

“You’re not showing the white feather?” asked Peter. 

“No, no; but I need some money.” 

“How much?” 

“A thousand.” 

“I will have Jacob see you,” returned Peter. 

Then Welty departed. He found Eli where he had left 
him, unconscious, with some customers standing about wait- 
ing for the young man to take his own good time about ris- 
ing. The customers had come into the store, and when they 
saw Eli lying on the floor, remarked among themselves that 
he was taking an afternoon’s nap. When one of them 
sought to arouse him, they became alarmed as to what 
might have happened, for Eli would not rouse himself. So 
they were standing about him in contemplation when Welty 
came out of Peter’s office. Welty glanced at Eli obliquely, 
as if deigning to stoop so low as to lend aid to his victim, 
brushed past the onlookers, and made his exit by the front 
door. 

Peter, seeing that something was wrong, strutted out in 
a fluster, with his belly about a foot ahead of him. He 
had not observed from his peephole that Eli had not re- 
sumed his duties while Welty was in his office, so great 
was his interest in that visitor. But finding Eli in his pre- 
dicament, Peter called on one of his customers to assist 
in his resurrection. Eli, thereupon, was lifted to his feet, 
but he was so near the limberness of a rope it was impos- 
sible to cause him to assume the perpendicularity of a 
standing man. Then that old remedy — water — was ap- 


EDITH AND JOHN 


129 


plied, with no effect. Eli looked like a faded piece of blue 
calico, so deathly was his face. 

They called a doctor; with no results. They called an 
ambulance, and conveyed him to a hospital. They called in 
the police to make an investigation; with no results. Peter 
knew nothing. It was a strange affair. The customers, 
of course, knew nothing; nobody could get head nor tail of 
what had happened Eli. It was a deep mystery — to the 
police department. 

Peter employed a new clerk, temporarily, and resumed 
his pipe and peephole. Welty resumed his duties in the 
office of Jarney & Lowman. In the meantime Eli Jerey’s 
life hung in the balance; and the world of business still 
moved on; for he was only a poor clerk. 


CHAPTER XVH. 

GOOD BYE! GOOD BYE! GOOD BYE! 

As a metaphysician, John Winthrope could not present 
his bill of services, in the nonprofessional sense, for his visit 
to the Jarneys. This was the calamitous burden that bore 
so heavily upon him as he left the mansion on the hill that 
night, and kept his head in a whirl all the way to the city, 
and to his room, and to his bed, and even late into the 
night, till exhausting time relieved him near the breaking 
of another day. 

It was the first time that the real tempest of passion 
had broken in upon his sea of life ; it was the first time 
that Cupid, with his implements of war, came to offer 
battle on his serene and peaceful field of budding bachelor- 
hood. It was the very first time for him, so amourously 
passive was he toward the whiles of the little meddler into 
one’s heart affairs. It is so with many people, men and 
women; but when the storm once breaks in upon their un- 
impressionable souls it is like a hurricane let loose, and is 
unrestrainable. 

He now saw a new light in the heavens, even through 
the smoke of Pittsburgh; a new evening star appeared in 
his firmament, and whirled through the universe of his 


130 


EDITH AND JOHN 


night to meet him in the dawn; a new moon arose, and 

burst into full reflection of shadowy mysticism; a new sun 

circled the arch of his cold earth, and made the plants of 
joy come into leafage. Ah, there were no seasons to him 
now — it was light by day, light by night — and he was 
seeing everywhere through his visual horoscope — except — 
always except — as to a solution of the great problem that 
confronted him. 

The next morning after John’s visit to see Miss Edith, 
Mr. Jarney arrived at the office a half hour before his 

time. He was so different to what he had been on the 

previous few days that John instinctively felt his exuberance 
of pleasantry throughout the entire day. Instead of taking 
up his dictation, as had been his wont, Mr. Jarney paced 
the floor in his proud and haughty way of doing such 
things. He spoke to John, on entering, in his calm, formal 
explicitness, as had been his custom, when John entered to 
take his seat by his master’s desk. John sat waiting for 
Mr. Jarney to open his letters and proceed; but he did not 
touch a letter, at first. He said nothing for some time, 
but walked the floor, pondering, as if wrestling with con- 
flicting thoughts. After awhile he broke the spell. 

“Young man,” he said, as he stopped in his walk in 
front of John, with his hands deep in his pockets, and his 
keen eyes sparkling, “I do not know what to make of you.’’ 

“Am I such a conundrum as all that?” asked John, as 
he met his master’s eyes, with his own as sharp as those 
cast upon him. 

“In truth, you are,” returned Mr. Jarney. “You are 
the biggest puzzle I have ever had to work out.” 

“Mr. Jarney, you place me in a very awkward posi- 
tion,” answered John. “I am not certain yet as to what 
3^011 mean by your allusions.” 

“My dear boy — ” he started to say, then checked him- 
self, thinking his manner too familiar, and went on: “Mr. 
Winthrope, you are master of your own destiny. You can 
make it what you will. You can be a leader of affairs, or 
you can be nothing.” 

“I only hope for an opportunity, Mr. Jarney, to claim 
the honor of the first,” responded John. 

“That is not what I mean, Mr. Winthrope; it is — well, 
it is — that you can do it.” 


EDITH AND JOHN 


131 


‘‘I am certainly at a greater loss to understand you, Mr. 
Jarney,” said John smiling, but still believing that he under- 
stood. “Nevertheless, I appreciate what you say, and will 
always regard your views with much favor.” 

“Let me tell you, Mr. Winthrope,” he pursued; “that 
business life is a terror to the average man. It has so many 
ups and downs that I have often wondered how so many 
succeed through all its uncertainties. I started out as poor 
as you, and maybe poorer, and have arrived where I 
am, with many a pain to accompany me. And still they 
call me successful. Had I to start again, I would pursue 
a different calling — science, literature, art, or music. These 
are the things that are a compensation to one’s peace of 
mind. But most people believe it is money. I do not. 
I did once ; but I have passed that period of putting money 
above everything else. Some will say, no doubt, that it is 
my view now, since I have got the money. Truly, had I 
not a cent, I would be of the same opinion. It was my 
opinion before I accumulated it, and I still cling to that 
hobby. Still I must continue on acquiring it. Making 
money is an endless chain proposition. Once you get into 
its entanglements, you cannot let go — you cannot resist its 
wonderful influence. Why, I should like to be free from 
its thralldom ; I should like to be as you are, without the 
worry and the bother that money entails; I would like to 
exchange places with you, were it possible. But that can 
never happen, I suppose, so long as I have my present con- 
nections. I have often thought that I would like to tear 
myself away from its engrossments, to be free to go at 
will; to enjoy life with my wife and daughter in some way 
that would be to our liking — some way that is different 
from our present existence. I do not say that I will take 
up such a life; I may. I did not mean to make this lecture 
to you, Mr. Winthrope; but as I have made it, I will stand 
by it.” 

“Still I am in as deep a mystery as ever, Mr. Jarney,” 
said John frankly, and more familiarly than he had ever 
spoken to him before. 

“If I were a young man like you, and had my money, 
I would go to my home — assuming that your home is 
mine — and there live peacefully the rest of my days, ’ ’ he 
replied. 


132 


EDITH AND JOHN 


“Would you suggest that I do it, in my present pov- 
erty?” asked John. 

“No; I am just supposing,” he returned. 

“I cannot suppose anything, Mr. Jarney; I am not in a 
supposing position.” 

“That is right, Mr. Winthrope, don’t suppose anything; 
always believe it, and then go ahead,” he said. 

“That is what I have attempted to do; but believing a 
thing and obtaining it are two entirely different matters.” 

“Yes; you are right.” 

He then strode across the room, and returned. 

“I am shocked at your manner of conduct,” he said, 
looking down upon John. “You have not yet asked about 
my daughter’s health?” 

“I fully intended to, Mr. Jarney, at the first oppor- 
tunity of breaking in on our line of conversation,” said John. 

“I am very happy to report she is growing better every 
hour,” said Mr. Jarney, turning on his heel and walking 
across the room again, and returning, with a freshly lighted 
cigar in his mouth. 

“I wish her well,” replied John, and then he halted in 
what he intended to say further — halted for a moment 
only, when he asked: “Mr. Jarney, with your permission 
I should like to see Miss Jarney, once in awhile during her 
illness. May I have the wish granted?” 

“I have no objection — while she is ill,” he answered, 
with that singular proviso attached. 

Then he sat down, and took up his work. At noon he 
asked John to lunch with him. John accepted, and lunched. 
At four p. m. he asked John to accompany him home for 
dinner. John accepted, and went. 

The combination of circumstances surrounding John’s 
intimacies with the Jarney family was very indefinable to 
him, at first. But, as the days passed, he was slowly and 
assuredly convinced that his services as employe of that 
man of wealth were not of the sordid kind alone. Mr. Jar- 
ney ’s condescending manner, his straight-forwardness, his 
implicit faith in him, his good will toward him, his extin- 
guishment of form, all showed to him that he was not so 
unapproachable as might be believed by any young man of 
the qualities of John Winthrope. 

Possessed with an unquenchable desire to do that which 


EDITH AND JOHN 


133 


is right, honest, honorable, or justifiable, John pursued a 
course that ever kept him in good favor. He did not do 
this with any preconceived plan, or scheme, to accomplish 
a purpose, but it was through an inherent prepossession of 
his makeup. Through the days he labored with great assidu- 
ity to get results ; through the evenings he studied with 
great concentration on his subjects — always busy, always 
ready to answer a call, or a summons. All these traits in 
him, Mr. Jarney was not slow in perceiving, and he gave 
encouragement, as he would, like any other man of his 
mould, to any one who showed the same relative adaptation 
and faithfulness. Mr. Jarney looked upon John as having 
many parts worth cultivating. As he had, for a long time, 
been gleaning in the field of young manhood for such a 
reaping, he now considered, since he acquired John, that 
he had harvested a good sheaf of wheat when he garnered 
him ; and he purposed, if all continued straight in him, 
to flail out his true worth, if the throwing out of oppor- 
tunity would be effectually grasped. But while he had 
these views concerning such material for his purpose, he, 
at no time, thought that his daughter would, in any man- 
ner, enter into the proposition. He would not have thought 
of compromising his views on business with his paternal 
ideas ; nor would he ever have condoned himself, or his 
wife, should either have entertained an iota of a notion 
that it were necessary to bring her name into such mer- 
cenary transactions. 

By reason of the extraordinary events, however, that 
had come to pass, anent his daughter, he was perforce com- 
pelled to extenuate any qualifying conduceraents that might 
connect her with whomsoever claimed the privilege of being 
his second, as John was, in business. His. amiableness toward 
John during the past few days might be interpreted in one 
particularity by the reader; which is, that he was encourag- 
ing that young man to press his suit for his daughter’s hand; 
but this is farther from the thought than that he would give 
her away to any young profligate who might ask the favor 
of him. He was, withal, a true father, in its supremest 
meaning. He loved his daughter. He granted her every 
reasonable wish. He even went so far as to make unrelent- 
ing enemies among the Four Hundred, of which he was con- 
sidered a worthy member, by discanting and discouraging 


134 


EDITH AND JOHN 


their form of pleasures for the young men and women, and 
looking with disfavor upon the youths who paid his daughter 
the least attention. One of his most unpardonable offenses, 
in this connection, was his unsparing resentment toward 
Jasper Cobb’s persistency in wanting to pay court to Edith, 
with matrimonial intent. The Cobbs could not, naturally, 
forgive him for such treatment of their young hopeful, 
who was just then strewing his pathway with the wdldest 
kind of oats. And, as if fortune never failed him, Edith and 
her mother, coincided with him. This attitude of theirs, 
therefore, gave him the greatest kind of pleasure, and en- 
hanced his inclination to stop at nothing that would satisfy 
their claims to his patronage. 

The foregoing statement is made to show what manner 
of man he was with his family; but not to excuse him for 
the manner of man he was with his business associates. So, 
in showing favors toward his secretary, he acted from a 
double possibility, i. e. : one to have a trustworthy employe 
in a very important position; the other to curry favor with 
a very lovable daughter, who had an independence that 
might run wild on a clear trackage of his own building. 

He had asked John to lunch with him that day mostly 
to be generous. He had asked him to his home again mostly 
for the good that his going might do for his afflicted child, 
in her hallucination. Nothing more. He did these things 
in such a cheerful way, and in such an unusual manner, that 
John was confounded. And he did it without reckoning the 
consequences, as many fathers act in the excitable moments 
of their infinite love for their offspring. 

Entering the mansion on the hill, on this, his third visit, 
John had a very different feeling than before. The interval 
since he had been there had been spent in musing and medi- 
tating, with the consequent result of him being hopelessly 
smitten. No gilded hall of magic palace, no form of cast 
or idol of fetich, no conventional rule of wealth or arm of 
power, no scornful threat of irate father or scolding mother, 
no nothing could desist him in his conquest, if Edith were 
willing. If not, then he would forgive her, and — perhaps, 
perhaps — 

Edith was sleeping when John was ushered into her room. 
Star, ever hopeful, ever faithful, sat by her bedside. Seeing 
John, Star arose and advanced to meet him, whispering, as 


EDITH AND JOHN 


135 


she took his hand : ‘ ‘ She is better — growing better every 

hour; but very slowly. She now sleeps.” 

“Then I shall retire till she awakes,” said John. 

“No; remain; she will awake soon,” said Star. 

No sound came from the sleeper, so peaceful was her rest, 
and so low her breathing. Her hands lay exposed above 
the spotless covers, with no nervous tremors in them. The 
flush of fever of the day before was gone. Her eyes were 
closed, and her lips were tightly shut. Her hair lay in ring- 
lets over her temples. Was she dead? thought John; or was 
it the peace of a tired soul in rest that hung upon her? He 
trembled with great fear. Those dear blue eyes were closed 
to the light of day; those rosy cheeks had faded; the smile 
was gone. There was nothing to convince him that she 
lived. 

Emboldened by the great anxiety that overwhelmed him, 
he drew up a chair and sat down by her bed. He picked up 
one of her hands, and felt her pulse. He found it throbbing, 
and he was relieved. He sat there silently, inconceivably 
happy, with his own heart throbbing so loudly that he 
could hear it beating. Ah, Edith, in her slumbering, might 
have heard its telepathic beating, too, for she suddenly 
opened her eyes, and turned them upon John, and smiled, 
so undisturbing was her awakening. She did not withdraw 
the hand that John was holding, nor did she seem to give a 
sign of recognition. But she sighed. Was it a sigh of her 
malady, or a sigh for him? 

“How do you feel this evening. Miss Jarney?” asked 
John, in a low voice, deep with sympathetic tenderness. 

Then she opened wide her eyes, as if surprised, and 
withdrew her hand. 

“Don’t you know me. Miss Jarney?” asked John, with a 
fearsome thought that she had declined to her former con- 
dition. 

“Is it you, Mr. Winthrope?” she asked, with her eyes 
lighting up. “Why, yes; I believed you were the doctor. 
I am so very weak, Mr. Winthrope, that I can scarcely 
speak.” 

“Do you feel better?” he asked. 

“A little,” she responded, feebly. “How glad it makes 
me feel to think you have come.” 

“Perhaps it would be better for me not to come while 
you are so low,” he said. 


136 


EDITH AND JOHN 


“I feel better every time you come,” she answered. 

She involuntarily threw her hand over the side of the 
bed. He took it up, and held it; and then touched his lips 
to her small fingers — fingers so small and delicate and white 
now that they were like chiseled marble, pliable in his. 
She did not resist, through inability mostly to draw it away, 
had she been so disposed. She made no pretense to conceal 
her fondness for him, nor did she attempt to talk with any 
design to hurry him away, when he suggested that she 
would better rest in absolute quiet. John saw all this. But 
he believed that, in her frailty, he should be very prudent 
in how he acted, and leave nature, and what little he could 
do himself, to restore her to her former mental and physical 
health. 

‘‘You will remain awhile longer, Mr. Winthrope? I am 
growing better,” she said. 

‘‘I hesitate about remaining, Miss Jarney, for fear of 
disturbing your peace,” he answered. 

‘‘I rest better after seeing you,” she whispered, with a 
trembling voice, as if she would break into crying. 

‘‘Then I am assured that I may come again?” he asked. 

“You must come often — very often — every day — will 
you ? ' ’ 

“If your father continues his permission to that extent?” 

“Oh, he will; papa is so good. 

Is it an hallucination she is laboring under, thought John ; 
or is it the will of a pure heart, feebly speaking? He was 
still perplexed; but his hopes were not deserting him. 

“Mr. Winthrope,” she said, after a silent spell, “will 
you go with Miss Barton on Sunday to her home, and act for 
me in what I had planned to do before I took ill?” 

“Indeed, I shall be glad to accompany her, and shall do 
anything you wish,” he answered. 

“I had planned to do so much for the poor in Miss 
Barton’s district,” she continued. “I brought her here 
to be my companion and my aid — such a good girl she is — 
but I cannot do anything now, unless you will help. Will 
you ? ’ ’ 

“I will, willingly,” he responded, wonderingly. 

“When I recover I shall enlist you in my service; we 
can do so much good for those distressed people.” 

“Nothing would please me better than to help you in 
this work.” 


EDITH AND JOHN 


137 


“Then, you and Miss Barton may begin it now; I shall 
join you when I have recovered,” 

“That will be a fine combination for charity’s sake,” he 
replied, enthusiastically. 

“I knew you would enter into the scheme. How good 
you are ! ’ ’ she said, with a feeble effort to express her grati- 
tude for him in a smile. 

“I am afraid you flatter me. Miss Jarney,” he answered, 
still holding her trembling hand. 

‘ ‘ Oh, no ; papa says you are so good ; and I know you 
are.” 

“What time Sunday shall we go. Miss Barton?” asked 
John, turning to that young lady, with increasing enthusiasm 
over his accumulating duties. 

“About ten o’clock, perhaps. You call here at that 
hour, when the auto will be in waiting for us,” answered 
Star, sitting by him, with as much interest in him as Edith 
had herself. 

“I shall be prompt to the minute,” he replied. 

John had remained an hour by Edith’s bed talking in 
very confidential terms to those two divine maidens — one 
of them rich, one of them poor, but both blessed with many 
heavenly virtues. Edith was growing restless ; although 
through it all John had been careful of what he said, and 
how he said it, so as not to excite her. 

“Are you going?” she asked, seeing him rise. “I am 
sorry I cannot withstand the strain longer.” 

“I should go,” he answered. 

“You will come tomorrow? then I will be better,” lifting 
up her hand to bid him good bye. 

He knelt down by the bed, and held her hand in both 
of his for a moment. How it trembled, and how it thrilled 
him ! 

“Good bye,” she said. 

Oh, he prayed, within his heart, that she might be well 
in that moment of his own deep affliction, so that the fear 
that was in him might be expelled, and he knew his fate. 

“Good bye,” she said. 

Going down the stairs he could hear that tremulous 
little voice saying, “Good bye.” All through the dinner 
he heard it ringing like the distant trembulations of a wind- 
bell ; going out the house he heard it calling after him ; 


138 


EDITH AND JOHN 


all the way to the city he heard it tinkling, tinklihg from 
everything about the fleeting things in the streets, turning 
all the grime and misery into music. Going to his room it 
kept trembling, trembling, till that dingy little place was 
a Paradise. And going into sleep it kept singing — singing 
“Good bye! Good b-y-e ! G-o-o-d b — y — e!’’ 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

PETER DIEMAN IS AVENGED. 

Black and sinister, like The Bastile, rears the bulky 
rambling building of that famous institution where infrac- 
tors of the law are compensated for their weaknesses. 
Amidst verdent hills and by the murky river it sits as a 
ramparted fortress in a savage land. In sunshine and 
cloud, in fog and smoke and grime, it stands brooding, ever 
silent, ever sullen; it is a place of the damned, the wonder- 
ment of law-abiding men who hap to pass it by. Beyond 
the sounds of the teeming river, beyond the noise of forge 
and hammer, beyond the regular haunts of men, it is like 
a secluded bee-hive, when the workers are all within. No 
one hears the hammering, no one hears the sawing, pound- 
ing, dinning, breaking, singing, chanting, praying of all of 
those therein, save the unambitious workers themselves. For 
it is a penal institution. 

Grim-visaged men, with loaded gun, stalk through its 
ringing halls, while haunting faces peer out from behind 
steel bars. The tread of many feet is hard, in step, on 
the hardened floors, as the men file to their places, like 
trained dogs cringing before their masters; the thump of 
many hammers is like a dreadful funeral march for the 
lost; the chant of many a tune is heard, in the time of rest, 
as the only cheerful note issuing therefrom. And above all 
is the old familiar human smell. 

In one corner of a ceil, on a cot, lies a man. He is 
bleary-eyed, and his face is swollen. His feet are bleeding, 
and his worn-out shoes lie on the floor. His old blue over- 
alls and check shirt are torn, filthy and ready to fall from 
him. He rolls his head from side to side, and beats his 


EDITH AND JOHN 


139 


breast with his knotted hands. The spume of an hectic 
cough hangs around his mouth, and blood flows out his nos- 
trils. He is Billy Barton — dying — dying — alone! While 
the hammers ring, and the men chant, and the guards pace 
to and fro; while the clock is ticking for other men to come 
and go; while the sun is shining somewhere for the happy, 
the good and the bad alike, and all life outside is palpitating 
with a vigorous existence, Billy is going upon his final 
journey. 

He was brought from a nasty jail, where mephitic filth 
was supreme, to this place where brutal men are supreme in 
their cruelty. Emaciated, gaunt, and made desperate by 
reason of the abuse heaped upon his crazed head, he was 
terrible in his obstinacy of prison rules. He was put to 
work with ball and chain tied about his ankles, when lying 
down on a feather bed would have been a severe and painful 
task to him. He was weak. He could not work, let alone 
stand. He was faint, sick, heartsore. But no one saw his 
misery. No one wanted to see it. For why should they? 
He was only a vagabond, and why should he receive atten- 
tion? 

He was pushed and pounded and thumped and beaten 
because he could not work. He was fed on bread and water 
for his failure ; he was straight-jacketed, hung up by the 
wrists, given the water-cure ; thrown into the dungeon and 
flogged. But the brute rises in man, sometimes, when met 
by a brute, and Billy struck back. This was the beginning 
of his end; for the deputy, being not yet satisfied in the 
full exercise of his authority, threw more of his brutishness 
into display, and laid Billy low with a cudgel that he carried, 
and dragged him, like a dog, to his cell, and threw him on 
his cot to die — alone ! 

An investigation into poor Billy Barton’s death by the 
Honorable Board of Authorities revealed one of the most 
peculiar and singular cases that ever came to their discrim- 
inating notice. Billy died of heart failure, they announced. 
Of course, every man dies when his heart ceases to beat. 
Even those good and upright members of the Honorable 
Board of Authorities will die of that disease some day; and 
no doubt a tombstone will have all their virtues enscribed 
upon it. Billy Barton’s — will simply be, William Barton, 
that’s all. 


140 


EDITH AND JOHN 


Who should claim the body? Had he any friends? they 
punctiliously inquired. Yes; they found one. A man of 
worth, too — Peter Dieman, the humble junkman; Billy’s 
old friend, of course, who would provide a decent funeral, 
and see that the last sad rites were said over his corruptible 
remains. Yes; Peter Dieman would do all this, being very 
generous, and a philanthropic man; for who w^ould impinge 
his motives? 

The body was, in the true fiction of such events, con- 
veyed in very solemn state to that hovel on the south side 
of the Monongahela river, near which and within which all 
of Billy Barton’s living time was spent. All his children 
were present at the funeral, except that one of ill-repute 
who had preceded his father upon the long unknown trail. 
All his former friends were present, with one extra added: 
Peter Dieman. Another friend was present, in the person 
of John Winthrope, as the representative of Edith, who 
sent the only flowers. 

Had Billy Barton been resurrected the time he lay in 
his coffin, supported on two chairs, he would have seen a 
change in the furnishings of his earthly home ; he would 
have seen paper on the walls, where once were the smutch- 
ings of discoloring time; he would have seen a carpet on 
the floor, pictures on the walls, one of which he would have 
seen was Madonna and her child; he would have seen many 
things that were not there when he was its besotted, irre- 
sponsible master. Ah, he would have seen his little girls 
dressed in new frocks, with a simple imitation of pride in 
their deportment; and his boys he would have seen, although 
still very rude, in a feeble effort to be vain over their new 
toggery. He would also have seen his slattern wife in a 
new dress, with her hair done up, and a new hope masked 
behind her stoical face. And he would have seen that other 
one, his daughter Star, whom he maltreated all her sorrow- 
ful years, come to offer up to God supplication for his 
soul; and, if his spirit had not yet departed, he would have 
heard her weeping in her anguish. As he lay in his shroud 
he would have felt the warm touch of little hands on his 
hard face, as the little ones stood about his bier taking a 
last farewell look at '‘Pap” before the man in black had 
covered up his face from their view forever; and he would 


EDITH AND JOHN 


141 


have seen John, in all the freshness and beauty of young 
manhood, a consoling support to his only child that shed 
a tear. Still more, he would have seen that exaggerated 
piece of humanity, Peter Dieman, in all his implacable hatred 
for him, sitting in one corner, listening with exhultation to 
the droning voice of the minister saying the ritual words 
and singing “Rock of Ages.” 

Solemnly went the funeral cortege through the crowded 
thoroughfares bearing him away; and as the people looked 
with awe on his passing, remembering, perhaps, that they 
would take the same long ride some day, little did they 
reck how he lived and how he died. 

To Homewood, a pretty decent place, they bore him, and 
put him beneath the ground, with the skeltering winds sing- 
ing his funeral dirge. Above his grave Star and John placed 
a tombstone, with, “Our Father, William Barton; born Fri- 
day, December 13, 1861; died Friday, December 13, 1907,” 
as the only legend. No virtues had he to be recorded, like 
those of the Honorable Board of Authorities. But he was 
gone — finally gone — out of the turmoil of this world. 

Peter Dieman again sat in his little black ofl&ce in The 
Die, smoking his scandalous pipe, rubbing his red hands, and 
squinting his piggish eyes; and giving vent occasionally to 
devlish outbursts of perfect satisfaction. Nothing consumed 
his mind so much at present as the refiection over his vic- 
tory — his victory over Billy Barton, the worthless drunkard. 

In his youth Peter went into the contest with Billy for 
the hand of Kate Jarney, a cousin of Hiram Jarney. Kate, 
being young and ignorant, selected the most prepossessing 
face, and took up her lot with that face, and all the horrors 
that accompanied it. Peter being of a revengeful nature, 
took up his life alone, a disappointed man, and sought to 
drown his sorrows in the role of Chief Ward Heeler. 

Peter was not such a bad man in his younger days, but 
remorse over his unrequited love drove him to diabolical 
things. Hence his attitude toward all mankind. For twenty 
years, almost, he was cross, crabbed and oppressive ; and 
the wonder is how he maintained his power in his invidious 
treatment of his henchmen and his superiors. But this may 
be explained by his one saving grace of knowing how to 
string the “ropes” for the system — Graft — without break- 


142 


EDITH AND JOHN 


ing any of them, and screening the arch conspirators; for 
which he was amply rewarded. For twenty years, almost, 
he lived like a bear, spending his days in his black shop, 
and his nights in a shabby room above, like a miser — always 
with an irreconcilable fury burning beneath his hairy breast. 
For twenty years, almost, he brooded while he amassed a 
•fortune, which gave him but the one comfort that the ‘‘some 
day” might bring. And his day had come at last. 

Thus, as he sat in his office smoking and rubbing, the 
old light came back to him; and he was not slow to act. 
Leaving the shop in the care of the new clerk (Eli Jerey 
being yet indisposed) he went out. Finding a purveyor of 
“houses for sale,” he traveled the circuitous rounds with 
that individual in search of a satisfying heap of stone and 
mortar. Selecting one of approved style and with the re- 
quisite number of rooms, in the rich men’s district of the 
East End, he purchased. Then, fitting it up with all the 
dazzle that money could buy, he installed therein the entire 
Barton family, with one exception, of course; and ere the 
month was out, so little was his compunction as to propriety, 
he made the withered love of his youth his wife. And the 
gods caused him to smile, at last. 

So affecting was this piece of news on Eli Jerey ’s mind 
that he forthwith began to arouse himself from his con- 
valescing lethargy; and by another fortnight was down at 
his old post, with the same cadaverous look in his face, 
and the same slavish notions in his head. Since Peter had 
left his office: which he did immediately after his marriage: 
that little black hole stood silent, smokeless, with the accum- 
ulated filth of years still clinging to it. The little peephole 
was there, now with no wolfish eyes behind to peer through 
it, but still a source of much anxiety to Eli, who, so strong 
was the force of habit in him, even after he knew his master 
was gone, looked suspiciously at it ever and anon, as if it 
itself would turn into green eyes and knock him down by 
their stare, as those without the secret password had often 
done before. Otherwise, Eli had peace of soul, since that 
irritable old curmudgeon had surprised him into getting well. 

Being faithful to his trust, he could not do different 
than he did; and it is well for him. For after Peter had 
returned from his long-delayed honeymoon, he came to the 
office only as a visitor. So magnanimous was he now, in 


EDITH AND JOHN 


143 


his rejuvenated character, that he turned the junk shop 
and all his business over to Eli, to be managed as he willed. 
But this change in proprietorship in nowise took from the 
place the name it had acquired, nor from it the honor of 
being the repository of all the secrets of the System built 
up around it, with no apparent connection. So, instead of 
Peter being in his den, curled up like a stoat, he delegated, 
after awhile, to Eli the perfunctory duties of receiving and 
transmitting messages between himself and the henchmen, 
with Eli ensconced in the black office. 

One day after taking up his incumbency therein, Eli 
received a call from Welty Morne. 

“Where is Peter?” asked Welty, as he softly entered 
the sacred precinct of The Die, unawares to Eli. 

Remembering his encounter with that young gentleman, 
Eli bustled up like a porcupine on the approach of an enemy, 
forgetting that he was to let by-gone be by-gones, and serve 
his master in a new role. 

“Gone,” answered Eli. boldly; “I’m boss here. What 
will you have?” 

“Where’s he gone?” asked Welty, a little ruffied. 

“He’s quit these quarters for good,” answered Eli. 

“Wonder he wouldn’t let a fellow know such things,” 
said Welty. 

“I’m his messenger; what can I do for you?” 

“You! I hope not to that exent!” 

“Yes; me — to that extent,” retorted Eli. 

“Well;” and Welty studied a few moments; then con- 
tinued: “Convey to him that Monroe wants to get in com- 
munication with him at once.” 

“I will do it,” responded Eli. 

Whereat, Eli descended into the darkness of his private 
phone booth, remained a few minutes, and returned, with 
the information that Peter would see him that evening 
at eight o’clock at the “Bartonage,” as he called his new 
residence. 

“Very well,” said Welty, leaving in a sulky temper. 

At the hour of eight p. m., Peter was sitting at his home 
in all his pomp and grandeur, when the starched smile of 
Monroe irradially floated in upon his complacency in an 
hitherto unknown expansiveness. 

“You old tout,” said Monroe feelingly; “you surprise us 
all by your new stunt.” 


144 


EDITH AND JOHN 


When Peter laughed, which he did now sometimes, he 
was the picture of a crying calf, if the simile is permissible; 
so when he broke his face into one of his cunning signs of 
mirth, Monroe could not but help feeling amused himself, 
and accordingly split his barren face up into waves of non- 
committal wrinkles. 

‘‘Ho, ho, ha, ha,” cried Peter, forgetting now to rub his 
hands, and instead slapped his fat hand on his fat leg; “you 
old batches will have to fall in line. Look! and see how 
glorious it all is, Monroe; and to think that I have missed 
it all these twenty years! Ho, ho, ha, ha, he, he; you ought 
to try it, Monroe, and get those crimps out of your face ! ’ ’ 
Peter laughed at this jolly till tears ran down his cheeks. 

“Why, I should think you were happy, Peter, the way 
you are going on about it,” said Monroe, gloomily. 

“Yes; try it, Monroe; you can get some one; can’t you?” 
said Peter, with an extra bang on his fat leg as an extra 
emphasis to his seriousness. 

“I’ve never met my Fate — that is, no Pate that would 
care to take me,” he remarked, with the smile gone. 

“How about Jarney’s girl?” asked Peter, in a confi- 
dential tone. 

“That young chap, Winthrope, seems to have the way to 
her door all to himself,” responded the gloomy one. 

“Who did you say?” 

“Winthrope.” 

“I told you to get him out of the way.” 

“Well?” 

“Well?” 

“He can’t be got out so easy,” cried Monroe, with 
asperity. “He’s an immovable, unapproachable, indefinable 
young cuss, who can’t be inveigled.” 

“Have you given it up?” 

“Oh, not yet.” 

“What you leading up to now?” asked Peter. 

“To have the boss send him to the New York office.” 

“Will he send him?” 

“He may.” 

“Say,” said Peter, whisperingly, with an idea, “get him 
in the bribing line, and then let him drop.” 

“He’s beyond that,” said the undaunted Monroe. “We 
are going to send him to New York; give him authority 


EDITH AND JOHN 


145 


to handle money, and lay our net to catch him. This can 
be done. We will work it so slick, with Bate Yenger, as 
his assistant, that he can’t crawl out; and we’ll keep the 
money for our trouble.” 

^‘Good!” said Peter, forgetting himself and rubbing this 
time. ‘‘Go on?” 

“That’s all.” 

“Humph;” ejaculated Peter. “You are a genuine dough- 
god!” 

“You bear!” scowled Monroe — that is, he tried to scowl. 

“You unplastic scoundrel,” shouted Peter, turning on 
him, “if you don’t get him out of the way, and get that 
girl. I’ll get your job away from you!” 

“Oh, no more of your jollying,” said the putty-faced 
Monroe; “get down to business. How much do I get out of 
the swag I get with the girl?” 

“Half,” replied Peter. 

“Well, it’s worth trying for,” said Monroe. 

‘ ‘ Say, by the by, Monroe ; I received this today from 
Europe. Read it,” said Peter, handing Monroe a letter, 
which had the following P. S. at the end: “I have lost fif- 
teen at Monte Carlo; send ten, or I will return at once. 
(Signed) J. D.” 

“Does he mean fifteen thousand and ten thousand?” 
asked Monroe. 

“He does.” 

“What will you do?” 

“Send for Jacob Cobb.” 

“What will he do?” 

“Furnish the money, of course.” 

“Jim Dalis is bleeding you for all the game is worth,” 
said Monroe. 

“We can do nothing else till we cease bleeding other 
people.” 

“You are plain about it, Peter.” 

“I am always plain, Monroe.” 

“Have you seen Cobb lately?” asked Monroe. 

“Yesterday.” 

“How ’re things coming?” 

“They’re coming for the present,” answered Peter. 
“Don’t you think I need them coming to keep up this 
establishment when I am fully in the swim?” 


146 


EDITH AND JOHN 


“You probably do, Peter. I will run opposition to you 
when I get what’s coming to me.” 

“Be sure you don’t get into the Pen, Monroe,” said 
Peter, looking up sidewise at Monroe, with a strange mean- 
ing in his eyes. 

“And you?” asked Monroe. 

“Oh, they can’t get me; too much pull with the — ” 

Just then a howling brat, in silks and satins, came tear- 
ing into the room, riding a brass curtain pole as his “horse.” 
On seeing a stranger, the youngster promptly made a flail 
out of the said curtain pole, and began to belabor Peter 
over the head with such effectiveness that Peter caught the 
child by the seat of his breeches, and hurled him blubbering 
into a corner. 

“I thought you enjoyed your new existence,” humorously 
remarked the staid Monroe. 

“I do,” answered the angered Peter, with a “humph.” 

“Well, if that is an example of what married life is, I 
don’t think I want any of it in mine,” said Monroe, with 
some dejection in the curl of his lips. 

“Don’t be so easily discouraged, Monroe; I’ve got ten 
like that one, on whom I spend my time in reforming.” 

“Oh, Lordy!” exclaimed the placid Monroe. 

“Yes; it is Lordy sometimes, you would think, if you 
were here when they are all in.” 

“Why, I’d soon be in an asylum,” said Monroe, despair- 
ingly. 

“Say, Monroe, I’ve put Eli Jerey in my office,” said 
Peter, changing the subject. 

“He deserves promotion, no doubt; can he be trusted?” 

“None more so; that’s why I put him there. I’ll give 
him the store when we pull off the next big deal.” 

“Will she go through?” asked Monroe. 

“She will.” 

“How much?” 

“One hundred thousand; then I’ll quit.” 

“And we poor devils will have to take the crumbs,” 
said the disheartened Monroe. 

“Every one is paid according to his services,” said 
Peter, in reply. “Get Winthrope out of the way, get the 
girl, and you’ll have yours.” 

Monroe departed, feeling better. 


EDITH AND JOHN 


147 


CHAPTER XIX. 

WHILE THE FATHER WORRIES, MONROE SCHEMES AND 
CELEBRATES. 

“Mr. Winthrope/’ said Mr. Jarney, abstractedly, pacing 
his office floor, with his hands behind his back, and his 
head bowed in commiseration, “my daughter is getting no 
better — no better. ’ ’ 

John made no reply, feeling that no reply should be 
made at that time, while the father was worrying so ; for 
in that same moment he was moved himself beyond the 
efficacy of a consoling word. The garish light of the burning 
incandescents, in that late afternoon, was tantalizing and 
unbearable. The pictures on the wall stared down like 
taunting ghosts; the green-hued carpet and the reflect glim- 
mer of the polished furniture seemed to reproach them for 
any sense of alleviation either might feel. The busy sound, 
the clamor, the roar and rumble of the streets was a 
hideous nightmare dinning in their ears. The heavy pall 
of smoke that heaved and rolled over the housetops, infil- 
trating in its aqueous touch, was a magnet of melancholy. 

Mr. Jarney stood by the window and looked out upon 
the flat-roofed buildings sitting below\ He wondered if all 
the life therein and thereabout was so torn with dread expec- 
tation as his own; or whether any of them thought of life 
at all; or of the past, or of the present, or of the future. 
All his years he had had no inflictions, no sorrows, no troubles 
to set his latent sentimentality into ebullition. He had 
gone through the mill of business always prospering, always 
successful, always a leader, without a counteractive element 
to his iron will. He had gone through his wedded period 
with a love for his wife, his child and his home, that was 
unsurpassable, believing that no untoward thing could ever 
happen to disturb the tranquility of his perfect life. He 
believed that God had blessed him in this respect alone, to 
the exclusion of other men. But now the blasting hand 
of Fate, he felt, was turned upon him ; and he had no peace 
while his child lay ill near unto death. 

Back and forth he walked his office floor, in his anguish, 
fretfully silent, and deeply feeling for every one who might 


148 


EDITH AND JOHN 


have a similar burden to bear. Coming to a stop by John’s 
chair, he gazed down at his secretary, with a fixedness that 
caused John to have pity for his master. 

“Mr. Winthrope,” he said, “if she dies, my grief will be 
irreconcilable. The doctors say there is no hope.” 

“No hope?” faltered John. 

“No hope,” and the father sat down and cried. 

Tears of sympathy came into John’s eyes. Under the 
trying situation, he could not control his emotions. The 
breaking down of that strong man was more than he could 
stand, and he arose and walked across the room to a win- 
dow, where he stopped for some time looking out, contend- 
ing with his own passion. Then he returned to his chair, 
where he stood in an undecided frame of mind as to w^hat 
to say. 

“Mr. Jarney, you have my full sympathy,” he said, 
about as expressive as he could say it, without unburdening 
his own heart’s secret. 

“Mr. Winthrope,” he replied, turning to John, “it may 
seem weak in me giving way so easily; but you do not know, 
you cannot know what a father suffers in such extremities 
— no man can know, if he has a heart, unless he goes 
through it as I have these past few weeks. With all my 
worldly ambitions, I have willingly permitted my whole 
being to be infolded by her being, till no other thought so 
dominated me. She was such a lovable child, so good, so 
kind, so generous, so unlike any one else I ever saw, that 
my fatherly soul rebelled at the thought that anything would 
ever happen to tarnish her name, or that of my own. Of 
these things I was very careful that they did not come to 
pass. I have brought her up and educated her, with the 
one purpose, that she would be my one consolation in my 
declining years. And I intend, if she lives, that all I have 
shall be hers; and I know that she will give no cause for 
me to ever regret, like so many of the daughters of the 
rich do. I am rich, Mr. Winthrope, very rich; but I will 
give all I have, if that would save her for me, and would 
face the world anew without a dollar. Oh, you do not 
know — nobody can know what my anguish is!” 

“Mr. Jarney, I realize what it might be,” said John. 

“I had hopes that when she came out of the trance the 
first time the crisis had passed,” he went on. “She did im- 


EDITH AND JOHN 


149 


prove for a few days; but suddenly she took a relapse and 
began to weaken, and weaken day by day, and now I fear 
for the worst. She is of my own flesh and blood — oh, God, 
I cannot bear it — yes — I must bear it. But in bearing it, 
what have I as a compensation? Money is nothing; home is 
nothing; life is nothing, without some one like her depending 
on you. A child might be ever so bad, but still a parent’s 
love goes out to it, in all its misfortunes and shortcomings. 
But to have a child like her is not given to every man, and 
the parent of such a child should be doubly blessed. I know 
that I am selfish in these views. I know that other parents 
will differ with me in what I say as to my child being the 
best ; but no one can say that I am wrong did they but 
know her. I do not know what I shall do, if she is taken 
from me — I do not know. I am already losing interest in 
things.” 

“Mr. Jarney,” said John, after he had ceased, “I hope 
the doctors’ conclusions are wrong, and that your expecta- 
tions will not come to pass. I believe that she will recover; 
I have believed it all through her trial ; but I may be 
mistaken.” 

“I hope you are not mistaken, Mr. Winthrope,” he re- 
plied. “I hope I am. I have never hoped before that I 
might be mistaken, and I hope I shall not be disappointed 
this time.” 

Mr. Jarney then took up his accumulation of letters, that 
had not been attended to for three days, and began dictating 
answers. He was so overcome by anxiety, dread and fear, 
that he had great difficulty in composing himself sufficiently 
to go through them all. Some he answered with a line, where 
a whole page would have been necessary before. Many he 
did not answer at all, being indifferent as to what became 
of them. He was nervous, agitated, and careless. After he 
had finished, although not very satisfactorily to John, who 
had been used to his methodical handling of his correspond- 
ence, and after John began to prepare to depart, he turned 
to him and said: 

“Mr. Winthrope, I am thinking of promoting you; wouUi 
you like to go to New York?” 

“I should not care to leave you, Mr. Jarney, so agree- 
able have my connections been in this office; but if you 
desire me to make a change, and if I am capable, I shall 
go wherever I am sent,” said John. 


150 


EDITH AND JOHN 


“An assistant treasurer is wanted for the New York 
office; how would you like that?” 

“Well, Mr. Jarney, this comes as a greater surprise than 
when you gave me this position; but, however, I shall accept, 
if it is the wish of my superiors.” 

“They want a man immediately for the place; but — I do 
not want to see you go away yet, though I want to see you 
get the place. You are capable, and deserving of it.” 

“I would rather remain here; but if I am to go higher, 
I suppose I should go at once to wherever I am to go.” 

“Another thing, Mr. Winthrope; you should not go while 
my daughter continues ill. Or — or — No, you shall remain 
here till she recovers. Some one else can fill the place till 
that time comes. It may seem strange for me to say so, 
her recovery may depend upon you remaining. It is only 
an hallucination of her mind, I know; but if her seeing you 
will do any good, I shall not forget it.” 

“Do you believe it is an hallucination?” asked John. 

“Can be nothing else,” he replied, gravely and reflec- 
tively. “You were the last one whom she saw and talked 
with while in her rational mind. The doctors say this is 
invariably true in all such cases — the impression of that 
person is indelibly left on the mind of the one afflicted, and 
remains there till recovery.” 

“But Miss Barton was there also,” returned John, in 
disputation of his theory. 

“That is true; but Miss Barton is with her all the time,” 
he replied, as an argumentative fact. 

“It may be,” said John, in a deeper quandary than ever. 
“Then I am to remain here?” 

“Yes — till her recovery, or — Be ready to go home 
with me an hour later today — five o’clock,” said Mr. Jarney, 
as John left him. 

In the meantime, while the confidential conversation was 
going on between master and secretary, Miram Monroe sat 
in his office scheming against his employer, against the 
secretary, and against the sick young woman, whose knowl- 
edge of things worldly was now a blank. It is always true 
of men of limited ability that they aim far above the possi- 
ble. Monroe, with his microscopic smile this day stretched 
almost into a cynical grin, so satisfied was he with his 
genius, was perusing page after page of complicated figures. 


EDITH AND JOHN 


151 


He was doing this mechanically, though, or otherwise he 
could not have 0 K’d them, being as he was in such a 
ruminating turn, with his mind set on other things so much 
dearer to his undefiling heart. Who was possessed with his 
special inborn faculty, qualifying him for his employment? 
Who had such a special disposition to accomplish what he 
purposed? Who had such a presiding genius for good or 
evil over the destiny of other men ? Why, Miram Monroe — 
Mr. Monroe, if you please. He rang a bell. Welty Morne 
stepped within, and closed the door behind him, meeting his 
superior with a superior smile to that of the rigid face. 

Welty,” said Monroe, with the solemnity of a gray 
goose, ‘‘I have seen the boss of the Board of Directors.” 

“Well?” 

“They have decided, he tells me, to create the office of 
assistant treasurer in the New York branch.” 

“No!” 

“Yes,” without a crow’s foot. 

“Good, old boy; we must celebrate it tonight,” said 
Welty, in a whisper. 

“And the young chap goes.” 

“No!” 

“Yes,” without a wrinkle. 

“We must celebrate that tomorrow night — When?” 

“At once,” without a crack. 

“Bully! We must celebrate that the next night — Who?” 

“You,” without a wink. 

“No!” 

“Yes,” without a twinkle. 

“Whee! We’ll celebrate that the next night — Where?” 

“At the Bottomless Pit,” with a microscopic smile. “Be 
at my room at nine p. m.” 

“With joy, old boy; I’ll be with you! Hah, you’re no 
two-spot!” With this Welty expired, almost, over his good 
feelings that his promotion brought over him. 

The bell rang again. In came Bate Yenger, with a 
crimped smile on his stale face. 

“Bate, do you want Welty ’s place?” asked the marble 
idol. 

“Want it?” exclaimed the idolizing Bate. “Can I get 
it? or are you buffooning?” 

“You have it. Bate,” without a twitch. 


152 


EDITH AND JOHN 


“When?” asked the anxious Bate. 

‘^Soon,” without a quiver. 

“Shall we celebrate?” asked Bate. 

“We will,” with a smack. 

“Where?” 

“At the Bottomless Pit,” with a feathered smile. “Be 
at my room at nine p. m.” 

“Bully!” With this Bate also expired — with joy over 
his air castles. 

Accordingly, at nine p. m., the trio met in rooms Nos. 
4-11-44 in the St. Charles hotel, a hostelry of good repute 
where men of disrepute would sometimes get through the 
cordon of morality that was strung around it. Monroe had 
a suite of three rooms, as became a man of quality, as he 
was, with no disparagement of the “quality.” These quar- 
ters were furnished, of course, in such magnificence that con- 
trast between the riches of the room and the nature of the 
man was like the temperate and the frigid zones. His bed 
room was in white enamel, with cream-colored carpet, a 
frail white iron bed-stead, with dainty white materials on it. 
Why the combination? It was that he, when he donned his 
white night gown, imagined he would be in a little heaven 
of his own, during his nocturnal sojournings into Dreamland 
— the only heaven he ever would be enabled to approach, 
perhaps. He had a lounging room fitted up in gray, in 
which he lounged during his hours of rest, and in which 
he received his friends. The other room he called the Bot- 
tomless Pit — not that it was bottomless, nor that it was a 
pit, in the strict sense, but that here was where he refreshed 
himself and entertained. It was done in dark-brown, prob- 
ably in commemoration of that old jest, “dark-brown taste 
the morning after.” 

Welty and Bate had been there before, so they needed no 
formal reception to cause them to make themselves at home. 
So repairing to the Pit, a spread was in waiting. The bill- 
of-fare (ach, god in himmel, it should be menu) was mush- 
rooms on toast, frogs’ legs in butter, calves’ brains in cracker 
meal, squabs in stew, oysters in whisky, r^olls in brown, 
butter in squares, sugar in cubes, coffee in percolator, pickles 
in acetics, cheese in limburger, nuts in hull, desserts in 
bottle, and cigars in box. All this in honor of Monroe’s 
erudition as a manipulator of things clandestine in his at- 
tempt at circumvention of a certain favored young man. 


EDITH AND JOHN 


153 


When they sat down at the table, which was just big 
enough for three to hear each other across with loud talk, 
with the load of savory things in china, garnished by genuine 
sterling, upon it, they were all very hungry, and besides very 
thirsty. 

“Gentlemen,” said the stiffness, rising, without a break 
in his metallic visage, the others rising with him, “gentle- 
men, a toast to the lady; may the good Lord preserve her.” 

“The lady! the lady!” cried the two Monroe dupes in 
unison. 

“And to Welty and Bate; may they ever prosper in 
their new jobs,” he continued. “Hah, too conscientiously 
modest to toast yourselves, are you ? — take water, you kids. ’ ’ 
This last remark was made by him when he saw that Welty 
and Bate hesitated about toasting themselves. However, 
they toasted. 

Thus they toasted, and they gabbled, and they ate, till 
all the viands had vanished, and nothing was left upon 
the board but the smeared platters. Then to the bottles they 
betook themselves with a wild and merry gusto. Monroe 
pulled the corks, and poured. He drank, and they drank. 
He smoked, and they smoked, till the air was a blue haze 
of whirling objects, only to be dispelled by the dark-brown 
in the morning. 

Once, during a fit of eructation, Monroe thought he would 
surely die, and got ready to make his will. 

“Write it out, Welty,” he commanded, in a severe maud- 
lin tone ; ‘ ‘ and write it out so that She shall get it all, with 
a codicil that you and Bate are to get one-third of what is 
left, after I am gone. Whoop! Woe me! Woe me!” he wailed, 
with his face like that of a gargoyle. “Write it out before 
I die,” he said, as he went staggering against a wall, falling 
over a chair, crushing down a rocker, flailing his hands like 
bat’s wings, as he retched and perambulated through the Pit. 

“Give me a pen first, and paper; I can’t write (hie) with 
my Angers like a chink,” said the hysterical Welty — hysteri- 
cal in mirth only over the wild effusions of Monroe. 

“I’ll write it; I’ll write it, if I have to use my toes, if you 
get me the ink, or tar, or something else that is black — only 
get it; get it!” weeped the disconsolate Bate, who at that 
moment had a fearsome feeling that his friend Monroe would 


354 


EDITH AND JOHN 


die before the act was done, lolling his head the while over 
the back of his chair, as if that part of his anatomy was 
too loose ever to be set back to its normality. 

At this outburst of Bate, Monroe plunged forward 
through the door of the Pit to the gray room, and to his 
secretary, from which he withdrew everything before he 
found the ink, the pen and the paper. Returning with 
these articles, Welty wrote the will in such hiroglyphic 
chirography that a Greely himself could not make it out. 
But it was writ, and signed, and sealed in due form. Welty 
in his hilarity did not lose sight of its import, and put it 
away in a secret pocket, for future use should the occasion 
ever demand it. 

He then shouldered Monroe into his downy bed, in full 
dress, with “Woe me! Woe me!” escaping in a groan 
from his unsmiling lips. Then Welty took the inebriated 
Bate, in the completeness of debauch, and rolled him, shoes 
and all, into that otherwise spotless couch. Then, before he 
should completely lose the balance of his own muddled 
reason, he also tumbled into Monroe’s heaven, leaving the 
dark-brown room to clarify itself of their revelings. 

And amid the stillness of the lights, all left burning 
brightly, they went sailing into the land of ethereal asphyxia, 
to await the hour of the “dark-brown taste” to bring them 
back to the time of remorse, and its painful complications. 


CHAPTER XX. 

WHAT THE SPRINGTIME BROUGHT FORTH. 

Christmas had come and gone; New Years was here, 
and passing, and Edith still lay upon her bed. Her face 
was thin and wan and spiritless. Her form had wasted 
away till she was almost as a skeleton. Her little hands 
were fleshless and cold, and her eyes were dull. The malady 
was in her brain yet, refusing to lift its anchorage, although 
she saw and recognized everybody permitted in her sight. 

John came and went every day. in the late afternoons; 
and every day he came with the same perplexed feelings. 
The “good byes” rang in his ears, growing weaker and 


EDITH AND JOHN 


155 


weaker in their timbreling, from morning unto night — 
following him everywhere, till he was near crazed himself, 
in his helplessness, for the sweet one that breathed the 
“good byes” in his ears. He went up and down and in 
and out the pathways of his small world, and got no comfort 
in anything, save what consolation there was in his work, 
which was meagre now in the sadness of his love-making. 

As he would sit by the bed holding her hand in his, 
tears would roll down his cheeks. She would lie so still, so 
beautifully transcendent in her weakness, looking at him, 
and speak so low and so trembling that he could scarce 
make out her words. Oftentimes he would kneel down and 

pray for her deliverance from the scourge that lay upon 

her. Sometimes the sun would break through the clouds 
and smoke, in its setting, and throw its transient rays upon 

her face, and he would take it as a good omen; but most 

often the days were dark, and the light was sombre, like 
his spirits. Sometimes he would sit by the window, while she 
slept, watching the snow driving by in its purity, and his 
mind would revert to the sleeper, whose purity was whiter 
than the snow. Day after day, he would come full of hope, 
and depart full of fear; for she was growing worse; and all 
the inmates of that mansion were in despair. Would she 
die before she waked? they all would question in their looks, 
looking at her in her sleep. Would she ever reach the crisis 
again that once before had given joy? or would she linger 
on, and finally pass away, without a murmur, like a child? 

No one could tell — no one could tell ! Still she lin- 
gered on, bravely refusing to give up her fluttering spirit. 

Sometimes she would brighten up, and talk with Star on 
her only theme — John — and then relapse into comatose. 
Often she would ask for him, when he was away, as if he 
were gone forever, and when he would come would only 
look, with a faint smile of satisfaction in her face. Some- 
times she would raise her hand, and lay it on his, as if 
she wished to express her love, but could not. “I am so 
weak — so weak, ’ ’ was her constant plaint, as if weary of 
the fight she was making. Whenever John was ready to 
depart, she roused herself to the saying of “Good bye, good 
bye,” and then sleep. 

0, what are the pains one must endure, in this life, to 
keep it going! 


156 


EDITH AND JOHN 


Through the days and through the weeks, this continued, 
without an indication that there was any chance. Through 
the weeks and through the months, the Reaper, with his 
Scythe, sat outside her chamber door — waiting, waiting ; 
and the angels appeared to hover over her — waiting, wait- 
ing — to transport her to their own abode, where she seemed 
more fittingly to belong. 

But he, nor they, never entered that chamber door. For 
the coming of the birds and the budding of the trees was 
the magic cure. Her eyes opened up, like a startled violet, 
in the springtime, as if she had slept, like the violet, through 
the winter season. The wild rose lodged its colors in her 
cheeks, after playing with the April winds, and the spirit 
of the new life overwhelmed her. The little skeleton that 
she had been for months was transformed into a vitalized 
being. As she once was, she was again, only more lovely, 
with the effects of a lingering illness still in its subduing 
tones. 

Sitting by the window, when the birds were singing in 
the park about her home, she was dreaming of the new world 
that was opened to her view. It was not the singing birds 
alone, nor the budding trees, nor the greening grass, nor 
the blooming cowslips or jonquils that she saw outside re- 
joicing at the turn of the season, that made her heart 
rejoice; neither was it returning health alone that brought 
the glint of the diamond in her eyes, the pulsing fiush upon 
her cheeks, the happier smile to her lips, the sweeter tone to 
her voice. It was — it was — it was that Love that lights 
the Soul, and causes even smoke and grime to be dancing 
gems and pearls. 

Sitting by the window, she was dreaming of him, who had 
gone, and who had said he would return — some day — some 
day. Oh, that some day is what makes the heart so sore, at 
the parting; for it is an indefinite time of chance, but still 
a solace to the craving heart. Edith was dreaming of the 
last words that John had said before he went away, ^‘May 
I come to see you some day, now that you are getting well.” 
They kept ringing in her ears as a pleading hope, as ‘‘fgood 
bye, good bye,” still was ringing in his. She was thinking 
of what she had said, as he was going, '‘You may come, 
you may come — yes — yes, you may come,” as she still 
was lying on her bed. And now, in this time of her day- 


EDITH AND JOHN 


157 


dreaming, she hoped that he had not gone. In dreaming 
back over the oblivious days, she remembered faintly that 
he came to her somewhere. Was it in this world that she 
saw him all the time? or had it been in some other that 
she saw him? or was it a mere illusion, after all? and he 
had come at last only to say farewell, as a duty. No; she 
saw him every day through the long silence of her sleep. 
It was he; it must have been; and did he know, or think, 
or believe, that she loved him? He must have known it, 
she kept dreaming, if that were he that she saw every day. 
And would he return to meet her love in that Some Day. 
He would, she kept dreaming; he would. 

Sitting by the window, on this the first day of her con- 
valescing period, she saw the smoke and fog roll by; she 
saw the sun warming everything into life, as the time was 
stirring her into a loving being again. Star was sitting by 
her side holding one hand in hers, with faith and hope in 
her own dear heart. 

‘'You are getting well so fast, dear Edith,” said Star, 
patting her delicate hand. 

“I feel new all over, dear Star,” said Edith, smiling 
down upon her dearest friend. “Everything is so bright and 
so charming outside today, it seems it was made just for 
me in my recovery. How I wish I could go out upon the 
lawn and pluck the fiowers, and listen to the birds, and 
even sing myself.” 

“You may go some day, dear Edith; you may go, and 
I will be the first to go and lead you the way,” replied the 
constant Star. 

“Oh, Star! that some day, some day, always keeps ring- 
ing in my ears — I hope it will come,” said Edith, with a 
tear of regret coming down her brightening cheek. 

“Do not be despondent, dear,” said Star, brushing away 
Edith’s tears. 

“I am not despondent, dear,” said Edith; “I am happy.” 

“I thought tears were shed in sorrow, Edith,” responded 
Star, in her innocence. 

“I have had no sorrow, dear. My life has been one of 
happiness; and when I am most happy, I shed tears, some- 
times,” said Edith. 

“Oh, Edith, I know,” said Star, with a mischievous look. 

“Does he know?” asked Edith, putting her arm around 
the neck of her friend. 


158 


EDITH AND JOHN 


“He must know,” answered Star, seriously. 

“Tell me all about it, Star — all?” said Edith. 

“Since you first took ill?” asked Star. 

“Everything — I want to know,” said Edith. 

‘ ‘ My, Edith ! he did so many things, that it might make 
you blush, did I tell you,” said Star, laughing. 

‘ ^ Why ! what did he do ? ” asked Edith, with an inkling" 
that she had not been dreaming all the time. 

“Do? Why, Edith! the first thing he did, was to put 
his arm around you in the cab coming home that night,” 
began Star. 

“Why, my faithful Star! Did you permit him to do 
that?” asked Edith, appearing to be repellent in her tone. 

“He couldn’t help it, dear; you was as limp as a rag, 
and he had to hold you up. When we got home, he picked 
you up, and carried you into this very room, and laid you 
on your bed.” 

“My! oh, my. Star! he didn’t do that, did he?” exclaimed 
Edith. “How dreadful!” 

“It couldn’t be helped,” replied the sympathetic Star, 
as her only explanation. 

“Now, I am real mad at you. Star, for permitting such 
a thing. I would have been real mad at him, too — I would 
not have permitted it, had I been in my senses,” said Edith, 
affecting anger. 

“That is the reason he did it, Edith; you couldn’t help 
yourself; you were not in your senses,” said the compromis- 
ing Star. 

“Go on. Star,” said Edith, seeing that Star was hesitat- 
ing about telling her more. 

“You called for him every day for a week, Edith, till — ’* 

“ — I am a little goose, Star; I always knew I was; now 
I know it. Did he come?” 

“He came; and brought you back to your senses, dear.” 

“I do now remember seeing him somewhere — sometime 
— I can’t think. Star — where it was — what else?” said 
Edith, growing nervous. 

“He came every day, Edith — every day, after that, and 
sat by your bed for an hour, and held your hand — ” 

“ — now I know I am a goose for allowing such con- 
duct — no, I am not mad. Star. Did he do that?” 

“ — and he knelt down and prayed for you, every dav 
almost, Edith.” 


EDITH AND JOHN 


159 


‘‘God bless him!” said Edith, as the tears came to her 
eyes. 

‘‘ — and you talked to him, Edith, sometimes, and always 
asked him to come again — ” 

” — I must have been out of my head.” 

“Don’t you remember it, Edith — any of it, at all?” 

“I have a faint recollection of something, which I cannot 
clearly make out — I know — I know, Star. It has pos- 
sessed me ever since I saw him — I am not provoked at any- 
thing he did. Star.” 

‘ ' But, Edith ; Edith, listen, ’ ’ said Star, in an admonish- 
ing tone; “he came as a matter of duty, believing it was an 
hallucination of yours.” 

“He will forgive me, then,” returned Edith, with calm 
resignation, “if I did or said anything unbecoming a lady, 
who — who — oh. Star, I cannot believe that I did anything 
wrong, do you? If he never knows. I will keep my secret, 
and you will help me in my troubled heart, will you not. 
dear?” 

“He loves you, Edith.” 

“Dear Star,” said Edith, as she threw both arms around 
her friend’s neck; “does he? Does he? Are you sure? 

“I am sure, Edith,” said Star, kissing Edith. “He told 
me as much.” 

“That was not kind in him; he should tell me first,” said 
Edith, pensively. 

“But he told me not to tell,” replied Star, regretfully; 
“and he said he never expected to claim your hand — ” 

“Why? My riches will not be in the way,” she said, 
as she began to cry. 

“That is why, Edith,” said Star, consolingly. “He said 
he could not hope to meet you on the same level — ” 

“Money!” exclaimed Edith. 

“Money,” replied Star, very low; “he hasn’t any.” 

“That is why I love him, Star; and because he is better 
than any man I have ever seen, except, perhaps, my father. 
This is one of the greatest troubles the daughters of the 
rich have — the finding of a good young man among them; 
and the good young men who are poor are too self-conscious 
to seek us.” 

“But he has asked to come again, Edith,” said Star, 
hopefully. 


160 


EDITH AND JOHN 


‘‘Some day — some day,” sighed Edith, .looking out the 
window. Then : “I wish I had never seen — no, no ; that 
is not what I mean. Had I never seen him, I would not 
have this pain, the pain of uncertainty, in my heart. Awhile 
ago I was very happy; but now I feel like lying down in 
the bed again, and remaining there till — oh, I wish he 
would come, and I — no, I could not do that; he must find 
it out, if he is ever to know. I will get well first. Star, and 
then we will take up the work, Star, I had planned before I 
became ill; and work to do some good in the world. I am 
feeling very weak. Star. This has been too much for me; 
will you assist me to my bed. Oh, Star, I am sorry — sorry 
for it all. You do not know, dear Star. You will not know 
till some good man comes along and strikes a responsive 
chord in your heart — you will not know, Star, till then. 
Help me to bed, and let me rest.” 

Sitting by her bedside. Star heard, for the first time, 
the story that Edith promised to tell her that day when she 
first came into Edith’s life. After lying down, Edith was 
more calm, and was still in the mood to continue her con- 
fidential talk with Star. 

“Star, do you know that you are my cousin?” asked 
Edith. 

“Cousin!” exclaimed Star, as if she did not understand. 

“Yes, Star; cousin! Your mother is a first cousin to my 
father; but I never knew it till about the time I sent for 
you.” 

Star leant over and kissed Edith, and drew her face up 
till their cheeks touched. 

“Edith,” whispered Star, “you are an angel,” and then 
released her, and assumed a kneeling position, while Edith 
continued : 

“I saw you one day. Star, when I was with my father 
on a mission of mercy in the poor districts of the South Side. 
When first I saw you, you were on your knees scrubbing the 
fioor — at that place where you worked. I saw your face, 
and fell in love with you as soon as I saw you, for I knew 
that you were good. I told papa that it was a pity for a 
beautiful girl like you to be doing that kind of drudgery, 
when he said that we could, perhaps, get you a better place. 
We asked you your name, if you remember — ” 

“I remember,” said Star. 


EDITH AND JOHN 


161 


“ — and when you said it was Star Barton, papa gave 
such a turn to his countenance that I thought it meant 
something that he had concealed from us at home. So 
when we came home I asked him what he meant, and he 
told me then who you were ; and he told me who your 
father and mother were ; and how they, when young, ran 
away from home and were married. I sent my maid, Sarah 
Devore, to search you out, telling her who you were, and 
have you come to this place in search of a position as a 
domestic, for fear that if I told you the truth you would 
be too proud to work for your rich relations. You came, 
as you know how, and when I saw you again, I fell in love 
with you. First, I wanted you to be my maid; but my pride 
of you was too great to make you anything but my equal 
in this house. So you see, instead of being my maid, you 
have been my faithful companion — and nurse. Dear Star, 
I love you, and if you will always remain with me, I shall be 
the happiest person on earth.” 

“Dear Edith,” said Star, with tears of gratitude in her 
eyes, “I knew you were good when first I beheld you; but I 
never knew that such goodness could be in any kinsman of 
mine. I never told you of the life I lived; I never told you 
how we lived at home ; I never told you of my father or my 
mother. For it always gave me grief to think of it. Poor 
father is dead ! ’ ’ 

“Dead!” said Edith. 

“Yes; died last December; and my mother has married 
Peter Dieman, who courted her — ” 

“Dieman !” 

“Yes; the junkman. They live in one of the finest places 
in the East End. I am sorry, very sorry, that my father 
died, as he was the only father I shall ever know; but I 
am glad that my mother has married again. When you get 
well, I shall take you out to see her, and you can see how 
she now lives. I never was ashamed of my parents, Edith, 
never. I did all I could for them, in my simple way, and 
would do it again, if called upon to do it. After you took 
ill, I carried out your wish, and, with Mr. Winthrope, went 
to our home and fitted it out decently for my mother and 
the children. My mother was always sad and brooded over 
her troubles, and had no heart for anything. Poor mother ! 
I am glad that she has married again.” 


162 


EDITH AND JOHN 


Star cried in remembrance of it all ; for her heart was 
good. Even dear Edith could not help but shed a tear. And 
they sobbed on each other’s breast over sorrows that had 
passed. 

Then, brushing away their tears, and laughing over their 
tender-heartedness, they resumed their talk. 

“Edith,” said Star, “I must confess that I marveled at 
your actions. I could not resist you, though. I cannot see 
how anybody can. It seemed strange to me that any one so 
good and rich as you should light upon me, and make me 
your companion. Yes, I marveled at it. Now, I know it is 
not strange. I love you, dear Edith, and shall never leave 
you, unless — ” 

“Unless what?” asked Edith, smiling. 

“ — he should come to claim you.” 

“He shall never know from me, dear Star; that would 
not be womanly — why, yes, you dear, you had to go and tell 
him. But will he ever see the true light burning — burning 
for him?” 

“He shall, if I ever see him again; or I shall write,” 
said Star, teasingly, still with her eyes red from crying 
over recollections. 

“You must not, Star; I could not forgive you — oh, yes. 
Star, I would forgive you anything — but not that,” said 
Edith, concealing and revealing her true feelings at the 
same time. “What do you think papa would say, if he 
knew my love for him?” asked Edith. “Oh, I dread the 
time he hears of it! And my mamma? but she will be 
with me, I know, for she has told me that she likes him.” 

“She suspects something of the kind, Edith,” said Star. 
“She asked you once just after Mr. Winthrope was here the 
first time; but she did not pursue the question. She believes 
it now.” 

“Star, I shall get well; that is my first duty, now that 
I am this far on toward recovery. I shall get well. Star, and 
you and I shall go — go — go — ” 

“Where, Edith?” asked Star, seeing her hesitancy in 
saying what she wanted to reveal. 

“ — to do missionary work among the poor.” 

True love comes but once in life to the pure in heart. 
Were we all as pure in heart as Edith, mankind’s tribula- 
tions might be less irksome. 


EDITH AND JOHN 


163 


CHAPTER XXI. 

MONROE AND COBB VISIT PETER DIEMAN’S HOME TOGETHER, 

Peter Dieman sat in his high-backed leather-cushioned 
chair smoking a black cigar, surrounded with all the ease 
and sumptuousness of a successfully domesticated gentleman. 
As he smoked his favorite weed, the circumambient gray was 
as a smudge in the midst of a fruiting orange grove. And 
above it all, he smelled like one who had been soused in 
aromatic oils. 

A pair of satin-embroidered slippers encased his broad 
flat feet; a red skull-cap, with a maroon tassel on top of it, 
bore down upon his rufous head of hair; a purple-flowered 
mandarin-like robe enfolded his pudgy body. The hairsuite 
appendage that had gone neglected for years, had been 
unceremoniously removed from his chin ; a yellow stubby 
moustache, closely cropped, hung above his lips like clipped 
porcupine quills, and a new set of hand-made teeth filled his 
sprawling mouth. The rubicundity of his face might have 
been taken as a danger sign on a dark night, with his green- 
gray eyes lighted up as a companion signal. A masseur had 
rubbed the scowl of years and the hate of time out of his 
face, till its rotundity was equaled only by the full moon 
recovering from a case of the dumps. So, all that were neces- 
sary to complete his personification of Old King Cole were 
the long-stemmed pipe and the serrated crown. While the 
latter would not have been essential to the enhancement or 
his kingly appearance, it might have been a fitting pari 
toward the completion of his princely makeup. 

Thus he sat and thus he looked in his spectacular pomi^ 
of power — a sub-king of the grafters — since he went into 
the soul-quieting business of matrimony. Thus he sat and 
thus he looked, when Miram Monroe, the genteel ghost, was 
let into his presence. Thus he sat and thus he looked, when 
Jacob Cobb, the ring-master, was ushered in — one follow 
ing the other. 

Would the visitors smoke? asked His Majesty. Yes, tlu^ 
visitors would smoke, as a favor to this potentate. And they 
smoked, and they smoked till they filled the air so full oi 
tonic fumes that the fair king was almost obscured by tlu*, 
baleful haze. 


164 


EDITH AND JOHN 


“Before we get down to business, gentlemen,” said Peter, 
in all his suavity of new refinement, as he slapped his fat 
right leg with his heavy right hand, and scratched his head 
behind the ear with his left, “I must escort you through 
my palace. IVe got a place — ’’waving now his right 
hand above his head in indication of the building that en- 
closed him — ‘ ‘ good as any man ’s ; and I want you two old 
friends to see it before we get down to business. Pleasure 
first, gentlemen, you know; pleasure first, to me, now.” 

“I’ll be glorified to see it,” said the ghost. 

“I’ll be sanctified to see it,” said the ring-master, 

Peter arose with kingly mien, shaking the rheumatism out 
of his joints and the gout out of his toes, and then swelling 
out his breast to a boaconstrietor size after swallowing a 
goat, wheezing like a horse with the heaves. He led the way, 
with his robe dragging on the carpet, to circumnavigate the 
building, the ghost and the ring-master following, respec- 
tively, with the sanctimonious bearing of laymen following 
a high-priest. 

“The kiddies are out this evening attending a party, and 
I have all this great house to myself — ’’waving his right 
hand around like a preacher of the Word. “We will go up 
the stairs first.” 

Up the stairs Peter went, the ghost next after him, look- 
ing ahead and considering fearfully what he would feel like 
should the king lose his balance, in mounting the steps, 
which he seemed likely to do constantly as he elevated him- 
self lift after lift, so clumsily did Peter climb; and the 
circus-master took his time, a safe distance behind, with a 
sweet air of passivity in his patience over Peter’s laughable 
pomposity. 

Peter led the way through brilliant halls and brilliant 
rooms, without a dark corner in any of them, nor even a 
blind closet in which to conceal the proverbial family ghost; 
which shadowy being, however, was not likely to seek a 
place of concealment in this home, since, as it happens, he 
had evaded all these pure pleasures of domesticity for so 
Many years ; so it would be an hazardous presumption to 
expect the stalker of family trouble to abide with him. 

“Where ’re you going to keep the family ghost?” asked the 
real ghost. 

“You old batch! Do you think I’d tolerate him round 


EDITH AND JOHN 


165 


here?” said Peter, with connubial pride. “Cobb has a cinch 
on them all; eh, Cobb?” with a refreshened squint towards 
Cobb. 

“Don’t be so rude, Peter, as to bring me into your 
argumentations with Monroe here, whose own reputation 
needs a little stringing up,” responded Cobb. 

“Never mind your moralizing — show us your house,” 
replied the ghost, without being the least irritated. 

When they came to the bath room, they all stepped within; 
and the visitors were charmed. Peter took on a new halo of 
beamingness as he saw how delighted his patrons were over 
this dream of modern bathery, with its shining fixtures and 
alabastine walls. 

“Do you bathe, Peter?” asked the ghost. 

“I guess, yes — every morning at eight,” answered Peter, 
with a swell. 

“Humph!” responded the ghost; “and you didn’t catch 
cold the first time?” with no attempt to be facetious. 

“Alcohol is a great preventative,” answered Peter. 

“Within, or without?” asked the ghost. 

“Without; you mummy,” retorted Peter. 

“You surprise me, Peter,” said Cobb, as he was testing 
one of the faucets; “the last time I saw you, you looked 
as if you hadn’t touched water in years.” 

“Once a year then; once a day now; three hundred and 
sixty-five days in the year,” said Peter, grinning. 

“I always believed you had some redeeming qualities,” 
said Cobb; “but how does it come you have clean water?” 
he asked, holding up a glassful between his eyes and the 
light. 

“Private filter,” answered the king. 

“That’s infernal water to turn into the public trough,” 
remarked Cobb. “I mean this, before it was filtered,” point- 
ing to the glassful still in his hand. 

“It’s all they deserve,” said the king, snapping his eyes. 

“When ought we to work them for a new system?” asked 
Cobb, emptying the glass. “Pretty decent water, this — when 
filtered,” he observed, washing his hands. 

“We’ll talk about water systems when we get back to 
business,” answered the king. 

“Do you wash your feet in water or alcohol?” asked the 
ghost. 


166 


EDITH. AND JOHN 


Don’t get too fresh, Monroe, or I’ll loosen up your face 
with some soap and w^ater,” with a hearty chuckle. 

“Oh, sometimes I forget, Peter, seeing you heretofore as 
a bear,” as a mollifier to his allusions. 

“You’re a corrugated donkey, Monroe,” said the king, 
with a louder chuckle than before, rubbing his hands, this 
time with a towel between them. 

“You’re a convoluted mule,” returned the ghost, tapping 
the enameled wall with his knuckle, as a clincher to his 
assertion. 

“Here, here! You fellows are getting too personal,” 
said Cobb, stepping forward, as if he expected trouble, so as 
to be ready as a queller of what he thought might lead to 
a melee. 

“Hah, ha, ha!” roared Peter, strutting out like a galli- 
naceous cock. “Cobb, you must pay no attention to Monroe’s 
foolishness,” as he swept theatrically along the hallway to 
the stairs; but still presenting the incongruous habits of a 
waddling duck. 

Monroe followed languidly, puckering his mouth into a 
low w^histle. that might have meant more than the blowing 
out of good humor. With most men, whistling means the 
venting of a superfluity of joy; but with Monroe, it might 
have meant a cooling drop in his cup of anger. Cobb came 
lolling after them, in his usual undisturbed forbearance. 

Debouching into the parlor, wdth the stellar lights trailing, 
the king touched a button ; presto 1 starlight, moonlight, 
sunlight, all together, in one grand aurora borealis, flashed 
mute darkness into palpitating day. 

“This is my universe,” cried the king, throwing up both 
hands, as if he were beginning the Sermon on the Mount. 

“Grand!” whispered the ghost. 

“Grand!” said the ring-master. 

“Grand” cried back The Moses, The Napoleon, The Wel- 
lington, The Washington, The Roosevelt, The Pathfinder. The 
Man With the Hoe, The Babes in the Woods, The Doves. The 
Dieman, on the walls. 

“Grand!” echoed Mozart, Beethoven, Wagner, Shakes- 
peare, Milton. Poe, Irving, Longfellow, Emerson, standing 
about in corners and alcoves in their statuary dumbness. 

“Grand!” pealed the Giant Grand resting on four legs, 
like an exhibition slab of mahogany, in a corner. 


EDITH AND JOHN 


167 


“Grand!” laughed the settees, the tite-te-teets, the rock- 
ers, the cushions, the chairs, as if they were ready to jump 
up and slap the visitors on the back and seat them down. 

“Grand!” shouted the king. “Well, I should eat a bed- 
bug, if you can surpass it in this old town for dazzle.” And 
everything hung its head in mortification. 

“Grand!” they all said, as the king entered the dining 
room, with its glitter and its glimmer and its splendor and 
its grandeur. “Here is where I eat,” he remarked, after 
seeing his friends dumfounded and speechless. 

Dumfounded? Why, of course! 

Speechless? Why, to be sure! 

Shucks! Who said the average man isn’t a pompous 
idiot ? 

“To business, now, gentlemen; to business,” said Peter, 
waving his hand toward his private den, where first he was 
greeted in his royal robes by the genteel ghost and the ring- 
master. 

“Well?” said Peter, after seating himself in his chair 
of state, directing his question to Cobb. 

“Let Monroe speak,” said Cobb. 

“Let Cobb speak,” said Monroe. 

“Gentlemen, my proposition is the proposed new water 
system,” said Cobb, venturing forth. “What about it?” 

“Well, what about it?” asked Peter. 

“Can we pull it off?” asked Cobb. 

“How much is there in it?” asked the generous Peter. 

“Couple hundred thousand,” said Cobb. 

“Pull her off, then,” decided Peter. 

“How much do I get out of it?” asked Monroe. 

“Aren’t you working your little stunt for bigger game, 
Monroe?” asked Peter. 

“What new stunt you up to now?” asked Cobb, sus- 
piciously. 

“That’s a private matter,” replied Monroe. 

“What is it, Peter?” asked Cobb. Then to Monroe: “Not 
scheming behind my back, Monroe?” 

“No such intention,” answered Monroe. 

“What is it, Peter?” asked Cobb, feelingly. 

“Monroe, I told 3^011 to keep no secrets from Cobb,” 

“What is it, Peter?” asked Cobb. 

“Shall I tel], Monroe?” said Peter. 


168 


EDITH AND JOHN 


‘‘Dogged if I care,” said the unimpressionable Monroe. 

“He’s after Jarney’s daughter and her money,” said 
Peter, rubbing his hands on his legs, and pulling hard on a 
freshly lighted cigar. 

“Ho, that’s why young Winthrope was sent to the New 
York office, was it?” said Cobb, carelessly. 

“Yes; it looked too serious seeing him going to her home 
every day,” replied Monroe. “While I also went, sometimes, 
I never got a squint at her.” 

Cobb became serious at this piece of intelligence. He 
thought of young Jasper Cobb, his son, as being entitled to a 
share of the spoils that might be obtained by an alliance 
with the Jarneys. He thought all plans had been laid for 
this catch, and all that were needed was to draw in the net 
and sort the fishes. He thought that, as a matter of course, 
there could be no failure. He never thought that his son 
was unfit for a young lady of the graces of Miss Jarney. 
He never thought children had a right to be heard in making 
their choice of a life partner. He never thought that Jarney 
should be consulted. Men of Cobb’s stripe never think of 
the ethical side of a question. They never think of anything 
but money — how to get it, and how to spend it. They 
never think of anything, aside from getting money, but of 
the voluptuous side of life. And this astounding statement 
of Peter’s, relative to Monroe’s plotting, came as a sross- 
complaint to him. Baseless wretch is Mr. Monroe ! 

“What ’re your prospects, Monroe?” asked Cobb, leaning 
his head far back in his chair, and blowing smoke upwards, 
indolently meditating over something that did not go down 
very well. 

“Good,” said Monroe. 

“Explain?” said Cobb. 

“Oh; why, that’s a private matter, Mr. Cobb,” said 
Monroe, looking more uncommunicable than ever. 

“I must know,” insisted Cobb, fidgeting in his chair, with 
a fine interrogative smile of assertive power. 

“Tell him, Monroe; tell him,” said Peter, rubbing his 
hands, and blowing smoke like a whale spouting water. 

“There’s nothing tangible yet,” said the yielding Monroe. 

“Tell it, Monroe!” commanded Peter. 

“What is it?” asked Cobb, sarcastically. 

“Well; here goes. First, I am working into the good 


EDITH AND JOHN 


169 


graces of the father first/’ said he. “When I accomplish 
that feat, having Winthrope out of my way, I shall press 
my suit for the young lady’s hand. ' I have been to the Jarney 
home a great many times for dinner this winter” — he looked 
as if he wanted to keep the matter a secret — “and I have 
always found young Winthrope there. He was permitted to 
see her, as Mr. Jarney explained, as the result of an hallu- 
cination caused by an auto accident, and her illness follow- 
ing it. I never got an opportunity to see her. Of course — ” 
he seemed to be unconcerned about her illness, so listlessly 
did he talk — “it would have been a delicate matter for me 
to have attempted to have seen her while ill; so I concluded 
to abide my time. Getting him away was my first scheme. 
This accomplished, and, she recovering as I am told, I shall 
take the first opportunity presented to ask her.” 

During the recital of the above, Monroe acted more like 
an automatic talking machine, than a human, so inanimate 
was his facial expression. , 

“Would she throw herself away on you?” asked Cobb, 
drawing one eyelid down as an accompaniment to a mental 
sneer. 

“Am I not as worthy as anybody else, especially Win- 
thrope, who is poor, and has no ancestry?” said Monroe, 
without a rising or falling inflection in his voice. 

“Bully, Monroe; well said!” roared Peter, rubbing and 
smoking. “But you fellows forget that a woman is usually 
made a party to such little afifairs of the heart. I’ve had 
experience, gentlemen; experience; and look at this grand 
house,” waving his hand, with a flourish, around the maroon 
tassel. 

“That’s true,” assented Monroe, without a tremor. 

Cobb assented too, as it suited him to assent. Peter as- 
sented to his own theory, looking through his own mirror of 
experience. They all assented, and reassented, acquiesced, 
agreed, yielded — to this assertion, time after time. 

“Still, I have a flghting chance, like all dogs,” soliloquized 
Monroe. 

“Ah, you must win,” said Peter, not yet discouraged, like 
Monroe appeared to be; “I never lost hope.” 

“But what did you get, Peter?” said Monroe, without a 
glint that would indicate that he meant a jest; “a woman 
and ten kids!” 


170 


EDITH AND JOHN 


“That’s all I wanted,” replied Peter, grinning. “Why, 
you old poltroon, I don ’t pretend to have ancestry ; but I do 
prtend to have money and gratitude.” 

“Don’t get personal, Peter,” said the admonitory Monroe. 

“Don’t, don’t get personal,” said the pacifying Cobb. 

“Oh, no, Cobb; I do not mean to be personal; but how is 
the money coming from the dives?” answered Peter, rubbing 
his hands first, then scratching his ear, then pulling an extra 
pull on his pipe, then spitting, then squinting, then sneezing 
as if to give three cheers for his observations on the various 
subjects up for discussion, in all of which he seemed to have 
the best of the results. 

“Fine!” exclaimed Cobb, with his eyes lighting up. “The 
police are just rolling it into our coffers.” 

“I need ten thousand more for Jim Dalis,” said Peter, 
looking gloomy, and ceasing to rub his hands. 

“It would be cheaper to send a man over there to kill 
him,” answered Cobb. 

“Maybe it would; maybe it wouldn’t,” said Peter; “but 
he will be back, if he don’t get it.” 

“Well, send it, then,” said Cobb, relenting of his grim 
suggestion as to the best means of disposing of Dalis. 

The door bell rang. A servant answered it. Into the 
house filed ten children, in all stages of wildness, accompanied 
by the mother. Seeing them rushing in like an invading 
army of young Turks, the visitors retreated with as little loss 
to their dignity as they could spare. And Peter was happy 
again in the bosom of his family — a Prince at home ; a King 
at the office of Graft. 

Mrs. Dieman was now the acme of reincarnation. The 
jaundice of a sorrowed life had been burned out of her face 
by the new brand of cosmetics, and she now stood before the 
world a justly deserving woman. But such is the passage of 
poverty when embellished by a little of the olive oil of good 
treatment, fairer living, and a chance. Instead of the down- 
cast woman, with a heart laden with lead, as she once was. 
she was now an upcast personage, with a heart that was a 
jardiniere of roses, doing her duty, and bearing her old sor- 
rows silently as the mistress of a mansion. Chance was all 
that were needed. But still she loved Billy Barton, the drunk- 
ard. And this is the way of woman, sometimes. 


EDITH AND JOHN 


171 


CHAPTER XXII. 

THE CONSPIRATORS’ PLOT IS REVEALED. 

Hiram Jarney sat in his lounging chair, in evening 
clothes, reading the daily newspapers, and smoking a Santa 
Clara cigar. His feet were encased in a pair of patent- 
leather slippers. A diamond sparkled on his spotless bosom 
front. His right leg hung comfortably crossed over his left. 
His clear cut features denoted his strength, and his active 
blue eyes his power; both combining to produce a wholesome 
pride of peace. There was not a smutch to mar his impecca- 
bility. He was immaculate from the top of his head to the 
tips of his toes. His closely cropped hair revealed a head 
that might be taken as a perfect model by a phrenologist 
to show the parts of a well-balanced man. With a broad 
high forehead, high arched brows, fine nose, and a pink 
complexion, his completeness as a man of parts was un- 
equaled. 

As he read the news, turning his paper over and over, 
as he glanced at the head lines, or waded through the matter 
of some article that interested him most, an almost invisible 
vapor lazily ascended from his cigar — a man at ease in 
the bosom of his family. 

Thus he sat and thus he looked, when Miram Monroe, 
the genteel ghost, was ushered in for a chat and to take 
dinner. When he saw who his visitor was, Mr. Jarney laid 
down his paper, crossed his left leg over his right, and 
leaned back in his chair, in such a resigned state of studied 
equanimity (always his pose in the presence of Monroe) 
that Monroe felt he must let loose one of his evanescent 
smiles. 

“Have a seat,” said Mr. Jarney, in his familiar way 
of greeting Monroe; “dinner will be ready soon.” 

“Thank you,” said Monroe, as he stiffly bent himself into 
the capacious depths of an arm chair, sitting near. 

Monroe was faultlessly groomed. He wore an evening 
suit, and had a diamond in a shirt front that looked no more 
starched than his frosted face. 

“My daughter will be down tonight for the first time to 
take dinner with the family,” said Mr. Jarney, in a conver- 


172 


EDITH AND JOHN 


sational mood. ‘‘She is improving rapidly, Mr. Monroe; 
rapidly; and you don’t know, being a bachelor, how much 
I am relieved of worry since she began to mend.” 

“I imagine how one would feel,” said the feeling Monroe, 
now inwardly cogitating over how to approach the subject 
that brought him there on this occasion. 

Having no hint of Mr. Monroe’s intentions, Mr. Jarney 
proceeded : 

“Yes; she has improved so rapidly lately that I feel, 
myself, like coming out of a long illness. My daughter and 
I are planning a trip, Monroe, just as soon as she is quite 
able.” 

“A trip!” said Monroe, without expressing his surprise 
in his visage. 

“We had thought of going to Europe,” pursued Mr. Jar- 
ney; “but my business affairs are such that I cannot leave 
here this summer.” 

“Where then?” asked Monroe, as if it were any of his 
affair where they went. 

“We may go to the mountains for a few months, so that 
she can recuperate, and later in the summer Ave may go to 
Europe,” answered Mr. Jarney. 

“Mr. Jarney,” said the ghost, in a muffled voice, as if 
he would burst with his secret, and as if his tongue were 
tied, “Mr. Jarney, what — what — do you — think of me — 
as a suitor for your — daughter ’s — hand ? ’ ’ And then he 
looked as if he were made of translucent glass, or polished 
marble, or anything that was hard and white and had a 
polished surface, with sterile spots on top of it. 

This was a stunner to the placid Mr. Jarney. The irre- 
pressible Monroe looked stony enough that he might be taken 
for a real stone god of the Stares, as Mr. Jarney pierced 
him through with his piercingly keen eyes. 

“You don’t mean it, Monroe?” he Anally said, after 
looking at him a long time, with a smile of the ridiculous 
mould. 

“I am in earnest, Mr. Jarney — never more in earnest,” 
responded Monroe. 

“Have you asked the young lady yet?” asked Mr. Jar- 
ney, still unable to believe the man was in earnest. 

“Not yet; but I want your opinion first, Mr. Jarney,” 
answered Monroe, fingering his watch fob. 


EDITH AND JOHN 


173 


“You are very amusing, Mr. Monroe; very amusing,” 
said Mr. Jarney, facetiously. 

“Then you don’t look upon me with favor?” asked 
Monroe. 

“Mr. Monroe, I am afraid you lack experience — at least 
in this respect,” said Mr. Jarney. 

“I have money — I have ancestry,” said the imperturb- 
able Monroe. 

' ' Oh, fudge, Monroe ! fudge on your money, and your 
ancestry!” said Mr. Jarney. “You need a little schooling in 
the art of love-making,” he said, smiling at the audacity of 
the ghost. “Do you suppose I would put my daughter up 
to be sold to the highest bidder, and knocked down to any 
old money bag that should come along? Do you? Do you? 
Answer me that?” 

No answer. 

“Do you think, or presume to think,” he continued, “that 
I would allow a child of mine to be bandied about in this 
mercenary manner? She is my daughter — my only child; 
she has a mind of her own; she is independent; so when she 
makes up her mind to that end, I shall consider it. She will 
first counsel with me before her intended suitor does. Mr. 
Monroe, it is very unbecoming, ungentlemanly, ungracious 
in you to come here this evening, and speak as you have 
spoken, not having seen her in months, or talked with her 
at all on the subject. I would do well. Mr. Monroe,” con- 
tinued Mr. Jarney, in the same equinimity of temper, “to 
dismiss you from my house, and from my service; don’t you 
think so ? ” 

“Beg your pardon, Mr. Jarney; beg your pardon, if I 
have given otfense,” said the ghost, with frozen atf ability. 
“I have given these thoughts considerable consideration, and 
I thought it only proper and meet in me to ask your opinion 
— it was only your opinion I asked, Mr. Jarney; so I beg 
your pardon. May I ask the young lady, then?” 

“You may do as you like about that,” said Mr. Jarney, 
knowing, in his kind fatherly heart, the finality of such a 
procedure. 

“Mr. Winthrope has been permitted to see — ” pursued 
Monroe; but Mr. Jarney broke him off by saying: “Don’t 
mention Mr. Winthrope ’s name in this connection as an 
excuse for your imbecility.” 


174 


EDITH AND JOHN 


Mr. Monroe sat through this grilling, unmoved as a don- 
key might. After cogitating again for a moment, he said : 
“I thought I was as good as anyone else, when I broached 
the subject.” 

“You have lost the point of view, Mr. Monroe; lost it 
entirely,” answered Mr. Jarney. “Lest you fall into bram- 
bles, you would better brush yourself up a little on the 
subject of courting. You will find a book of rules, perhaps 
in a ten cent store ; get one, and brush up a little, Mr. 
Monroe.” 

Dinner was announced. Monroe, unabashed and stiffly 
congruous, descended upon the dining table with such great 
gravity that he was likely to break in two before his hunger 
could be appeased. Opposite him sat Edith and Star. Edith, 
in her pale blue evening gown, was the essence of delicacy. 
Her face was fulling into health again, though showing the 
toning wounds of long illness. Her eyes sparkled almost as 
the diamonds that were set in ring and brooch. Star was 
like a fresh young sun on a bright summer day. Mrs. Jar- 
ney was as bouncing as ever in her sprightliness. Monroe 
was cold, as marble-like, as statue-like, as ever. The dinner 
was very formal, very cheerless, very unappetizing to every 
one, save Monroe, who ate with relish everything set before 
him. 

The cause of all this coldness may be laid to the front 
door of Mr. Monroe. He had cast a shade of the grouch 
over them all. Somehow, the mother was calmed by the 
sense of some pervading evil thing, inexpressibly unaccount- 
able. Somehow, the two young ladies felt the chilly pres- 
ence of a tentaeled fish out of water, that was wholly inex- 
plicable. Somehow, the father (unknown to the rest) could 
not raise himself out of the coolness, into which the ghost 
had plunged him. 

The two young ladies had greeted Monroe very gracefully 
and profusely, when they first came down stairs; but they 
momentarily lapsed into mediocre silence by the all pervad- 
ing something they could not fathom. The mother started 
out to be very gleeful over her daughter’s recovering health; 
but instinctively having a premonition of a mysterious caul 
overhanging her, she slumped into an unbearable quietude. 
So dinner was eaten with a sort of wingless spirit in them 
all, proving a discomforting failure in its pleasureableness. 


EDITH AND JOHN 


175 


Monroe, in his impenetrability, did not see anything un- 
usual. Had he seen, had he noticed, had he heeded, he would 
have departed at the most opportune time. But no; he loit- 
ered in the parlor, after dinner, and sought to engage Edith 
in quiet conversation. And he succeeded. Edith was sitting 
on a settee, with a silk mantle thrown over her shoulders. 
Star was drumming on the piano, on which she was now 
taking lessons, the father and mother being out. Monroe 
sat down by Edith. After foolishly gazing about the room, 
as if in an indecisive state of mind about how to entertain 
himself, he said, icily: 

‘‘Miss Jarney, may I have the pleasure of calling on you. 
sometimes?’’ 

Edith was startled at this unheard of piece of rashness 
participated in by the ghost. She trembled through the in- 
ward fear she had of this man of unapproachable demeanor. 
But summoning up what little of her former courage she 
had left after the blighting effect of her long illness, she 
replied. 

“Oh, Mr. Monroe, I have no objections to your coming 
here sometimes as a guest of my papa; but as for calling on 
me, for the purpose you intimate, that is impossible.” 

“Why do you object to me. Miss Jarney?” he asked, 
undeterred by repulses that would have sent any slef-respect- 
ing man into hiding.' 

“Why, you are as old as Adam himself,” replied Edith, 
feigning to be gay, but still frightened. 

Seeing Edith’s dainty hand, with a diamond shining on 
it, he caught it up, as if he would touch his vile lips to it. 
Edith withdrew her hand quickly, without a word, arose 
and walked toward the piano, leaving the ghost sitting alone 
like a confused statue when hit with a snow ball. There- 
upon, Monroe came to his senses, and forthwith departed, 
leaving a cloud of mystification behind, over his actions. 

In a huff (inwardly), he sought his companions, and 
escorted them to the Bottomless Pit, there to celebrate his 
great victory, as he called it. 

“Well, what luck?” asked Welty Morne, as soon as a 
bottle had been uncorked, and he held a glass of its contents 
before his admiring eyes. 

“Aye, what luck?” chimed in Bate Yenger. 

“Bully good luck,” said the ghost, like an owl. 


176 


EDITH AND JOHN 


‘'All right with the old man, I suppose?” said Welty, 
swallowing down his glassful. 

“All right — the old duffer,” said Monroe, draining his 
glass. 

“How about the girl?” they asked. 

“She fell right into my arms, and accepted,” responded 
the ghost, seemingly without the glint of a frown. 

‘ ‘ Whew ! Quick work, old boy ; quick work ! When is 
it to come off?” asked Welty, speaking loudly. 

“Sometime in the future,” answered Monroe, mysteriously. 

“Drink! and the devil have done for the rest!” shouted 
Welty, and he imbibed another glass as an additional stimu- 
lant to his joy. 

“Bully good people, boys; bully good people,” said 
Monroe, pulling another cork. 

“How soon you going to drop the pole set up to impale 
Winthrope?” asked Welty, unrestrained now in his enthus- 
iasm, which he gave vent to occasionally, by whistling and 
humming a doggerel, alternately. 

“The dog,” growled Monroe, changing his tone. “Not 
yet, boys; not yet. It goes up as if nothing had happened.” 

“When will you transfix him?” asked Welty. 

“I am going to New York tomorrow to complete plans,” 
said the invincible ghost. 

“Up goes the flag of destruction!” shouted Welty, with 
Bate repeating the words after him, both raising glasses 
and emptying them. 

Thus they talked and thus they drank, till the potent 
power of wine laid them low in a delirious sense of delirium 
in Monroe’s downy bed. 

After Monroe had left the Jarney home, Edith and Star 
ascended to the former’s chamber for that rest which night 
should bring to the pure in heart. 

Divesting themselves of their day clothing, they invested 
themselves in their night robes, and laid down together, side 
by side, in the bed where Edith had lain so long as an 
invalid. When the lights were out and the coverlets were 
drawn up over them, Edith heaved a sigh, like one does who 
lies down in exhaustion to find that peace that darkness 
&nd a soft bed fetches on. Star fell asleep directly, and lay 
in that peaceful calm which comes to one in good health 
and having no intangible fancies in the mind. 


EDITH AND JOHN 


177 


But to Edith, repose was as difficult as the quietness 
sought by the brook in seeking an eddying pool after long 
racing down a roughened mountain bed. She turned first 
on one side, and then on the other, dozing many times almost 
to the slumberous point, where the transport to the land of 
dreams is imminent ; then awakening with a start, as if 
the nightmare were treading her down to death, only to see 
the little imaginary beings that the half-closed eyes see in 
the illusory light-disks that whirl through impenetrable 
darkness. She tried to recollect some few of the nights 
through which she had passed, lying here, as if they were 
transitory dreams, remembering indistinctly how long and 
dreary some were, with fiitting spirits and hurrying beings 
filling up the surroundings; she tried to recall the forms of 
hopes and doubts that seemed always to possess her, and 
wondered how intangible creative mind is in its wandering; 
she tried to conjure up the scenes of the tall, handsome 
figure in black that called every day and knelt by her bed- 
side, but all that she could see was the form kneeling there, 
and never losing sight of the face, as if it were a part of her 
existence ; she tried to recall the last day that he was there, 
when he said farewell, but all that she could remember was, 
‘‘May I come, some day — some day;” she tried to recall 
whether she had said yes, or no, so uncertain was she now in 
her remembrance. She did. however, recall very distinctly 
what the unconfiding Star had told her — a secret given by 
John — and she was happy. And still there lurked before 
her the white marble face of a man, whom she had repulsed 
that evening. She saw it, when she closed her eyes, like a 
menacing statue in every corner of her brain; she saw it, 
when she opened her eyes, like a statue in every corner of 
the room, grimly and remorselessly pursuing her. And she 
shuddered. Finding sleep impossible under the wild riding 
of her thoughts, she placed a hand on Star’s shoulder, and 
shook her into drowsy wakefulness. 

“Star, Star,” she whispered. “Are you awake?” 

“Yes,” said Star, yawning. 

“Star, I cannot sleep; will you talk to me?” she asked. 

“Yes, deary,” responded Star, in a semi-conscious tone. 

“Well, talk then; I cannot sleep,” pleaded Edith, to 
arouse her companion from her natural stupor. 

“Yes; I will talk, deary; go on,” answered Star, not 
yet being willing to comply with Edith’s request. 


178 


EDITH AND JOHN 


‘'Star, are you awake?” asked Edith, shaking the 
sleeper. 

“I am awake,” answered Star, rising full upright in bed. 
“Can’t you sleep, Edith? Lie down and count the sheep 
jumping over the fence.” 

“Now, do not be cross. Star,” said Edith, sighing; “I 
am very nervous tonight.” 

“Poor dear; this day has been too much for you,” said 
Star, leaning over and kissing Edith. 

“Talk awhile, Star; then maybe I can sleep,” said Edith. 

“Shall I tell you about the wolf that comes to poor 
people’s doors?” asked Star, jocularly. 

‘ ‘ Oh, no ; not so hideous a story as that. Star ; I am 
nervous enough now,” replied Edith. 

“Then about the mouse that moved the mountain?” 

“That is a fable. Star; something real!” 

“Then about the man as old as Adam, who asked a maid 
of twenty- two to marry him?” 

“He did not ask me. Star. Do you believe he was in 
earnest?” 

“I think he is a sham, Edith,” replied Star; “and I think 
he was in earnest. Now, Edith, if I tell you what was 
pledged to me in secrecy, will you not tell where it came 
from? Yes, you will. When I was home today, Mr. Dieman 
told me that Mr. Monroe is going to New York for the 
purpose of causing Mr. Winthrope trouble before he should 
ever get home to see you again. I should have told you this, 
Edith, before now; but seeing how nervous you were all 
evening, I thought it well to put it off till tomorrow; or 
till you get better.” 

Star ceased, yawned, and became quiet. 

“Did he tell you any more?” asked Edith, sitting up 
herself in bed. 

“Yes, Edith; it is too awful for me to tell you tonight.” 

“I cannot sleep till you finish. Star,” said Edith, lying 
down again, with Star following her actions. 

“Mr. Dieman told me of the whole plot, Edith,” said 
Star, talking in a low sleepy voice; “not sparing himself for 
the part he played in it; for when the plot was con- 
ceived Mr. Dieman was unforgiving toward any of my 
mother’s people who had opposed his marriage to her before 
she ran away with father. But now, that he is going through 


EDITH AND JOHN 


179 


a period of penitence and reconciliation with his conscience, 
he was not loath to tell me all.’’ 

“What is the plot. Star? Don’t keep me waiting; I am 
impatient to hear it.” 

“Mr. Winthrope,” continued Star, “was sent to the New 
York office through the conniving of Monroe, to keep him 
out of your sight. His aim was to make an effort to have 
you marry him, get your money, and divide the spoils 
(that is your money) between himself and his fellow con- 
spirators. That failing, he is to ruin Mr. Winthrope ’s 
chances by tempting him to steal the company’s money, but 
stealing it himself and laying the blame on Mr. Winthrope, 
and then flee to Europe.” 

Edith lay quiet during the recital, breathing lightly. 

“That failing, they will cause him to carry certain large 
sums of money to a certain place ; then hold him up and 
rob him,” continued Star. “They have been planning all 
winter, and are now about ready to bring it to a conclusion. 
The time set, was to be as soon as possible after you were 
able to be seen by Monroe. Having seen him this evening, 
Edith, it must be time for them to strike. We must inter- 
cede to save him, Edith, if possible.” 

“I cannot do anything, in my enfeebled condition; but I 
shall see papa early in the morning. I shall forestall 
Monroe, in his madness ! Mr. Winthrope shall be saved 
from those bad men! Star, something seemed to have told 
me that all was not going well for him. Bless your dear 
heart!” said Edith, firmly, sternly, but calmer. 

Concluding her story, Star soon fell asleep. Edith, after 
having her fancies put to rout by the serious things that 
causes a more determined course to mark its way through 
the brain, also fell asleep ; and did not awake till the morn- 
ing sun, breaking through the smoke, had kissed the damp 
of slumber from her cheeks. 


180 


EDITH AND JOHN 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

EDITH REVEALS HER SECRET TO HER FATHER AND HE GOES 
TO NEW YORK. 

Refreshing sleep, though late in coming, restored Edith’s 
composure. She came down to breakfast temperamentally 
disposed to enter into negotiations with her father toward 
the combating of any plot laid by Monroe and his friends 
to entice John Winthrope into questionable dealings. 

Like a wronged woman, through an excess of virtuous 
actions, she felt it peculiarly incumbent upon herself to 
frustrate the plotters — not that it would save John alone; 
but that it would, as well, be consistently in line with her 
ideas of just dealings between man and man. During the 
hour which she consumed in making her toilet, she revolved 
the whole matter, as related to her by Star, over and over 
in her now becalmed and determined little head; and the 
more she revolved it, the brighter became the sparkle in 
her strong blue eyes, and fiercer grew the militant spirit in 
her nature. The fatigue that had put her into a nervous 
state the night before had been routed by that blind force 
that comes upon depression through a quick series of changes 
attendant upon a wrong done, to be displaced only through 
wearying fortitude. 

Edith, being primarily one of those strong natures that 
survives by shock of incident, went boldly to her conceived 
duty, as though it were given her to be ever strong when 
the crucial moment arrived. She now knew that her father’s 
good nature was being imposed on by that man of uncon- 
scienceable principles. Before she fell ill the year before, 
the actions of Monroe, two or three times, excited her sus- 
picion, and she had then thought of a plan to forestall him; 
but by reason of the fatal auto ride, her movements were 
delayed; and as well did it delay the schemers in their dark 
and dastardly plotting. It seemed a formidable under- 
taking for one so frail as Edith, just coming out of a spell 
of mental derangement; not in its simpleness of action was 
it so big, but in the momentousness of its results on her 
enervated system. She would brook no importunate plead- 
ing of her friend. Star, to stay her in her course, and leaped 
into it, as if she were a veritable Goliath of strength. 


EDITH AND JOHN 


181 


When she arrived in the dining room that morning with 
re-enforced courage, she greeted her father and mother, both 
waiting her arrival, with a kiss, and sat down next to them. 
Several times she was on the point of bringing up the sub- 
ject, but lest it should disturb her mother, she calmly awaited 
a more convenient time for the rehearsal she expected to 
have with him. Breakfast was usually a quiet affair with 
the Jarneys, so little w^as thought of the reserve with which 
each held speech. After breakfast, Edith took her father’s 
arm and guided him to a quiet nook in the drawing room, 
and seated him in his favorite seat on one side of a long 
plate-glass window that opened on his private grounds in 
front of the mansion. 

“Papa, I want a word or two with you this morning 
before you leave,” said Edith, drawing a chair up and 
sitting down by his side. 

‘ ‘ This is unusual, Edith ; now, what can my little girl 
want?” he said, endearingly, taking one of her hands. “You 
are not going to give me a secret, are you?” 

“Too true, papa,” replied Edith, and Mr. Jarney expected 
something else just then than what he heard. 

“I am not going to lose my little girl, I hope?” he said, 
patting her hand. 

“Not yet, papa; now, you must sit real quiet, and be not 
so inquisitive, nor so suspecting till you have heard me,” 
she said, fondly. 

“Why, Edith, I had suspected some dark and mysterious 
deed you had committed; but, with your assurance that I 
am not to lose you yet. I am listening,” he replied. 

Then she related all that Star had unfolded to her the 
night previous; and even how Monroe had acted. 

“From whom did Star get the information?” he asked, 
meditatively, after Edith had finished. 

“From her step-father. Peter Dieman. ” 

“Humph! Peter Dieman! and he married Kate Jarney 
at last — to her betterment,” he said, in a ruminating mood. 
“Well, after all, I am satisfied. Had she heeded me, she 
would not have gone through all these years of misery that 
her profligate husband brought upon her. Once I offered to 
assist her; but she was too proud in her lowliness to respond 
to my proffered aid. It is better, perhaps; it is better. It 
seems that the scheme of things is wrong, sometimes; but in 
the end it is righted.” 


182 


EDITH AND JOHN 


‘‘Now, what is to be done, dear papa?” asked Edith, see- 
ing that he had taken a discursive course in response to her 
irrefutable facts. 

“I shall act at once,” said he, gazing out the window, 
abstractedly, as if he had been wounded by an aspersion 
cast upon his magnanimity. ‘ ‘ Ingrate ! Ingrate ! all of 
them ! ” he mused, drumming on the arm of the chair with 
his lingers, deep in study over some plan of action. “Edith, 
what would you do?” he asked, as he turned his head and 
looked at her trustfully. “I have trusted him in his depart- 
ment all these years, and he has given such satisfaction that 
no one mistrusted his motives, or questioned his integrity. 
I can hardly believe it, Edith. What would you do?” 

“Do you leave it to me?” she asked, her eyes sparkling 
with suppressed fire. 

“I do,” he answered, half seriously; half in jest. 

“Then eliminate him, and his dupes, at once,” she 
answered, with great seriousness. 

“It is hard for me to do that of my own volition,” he 
replied. “He is so fortified with friends on the board of 
directorate that they must all be taken into consideration.’’ 

“Will they not see the necessity of his removal, when 
apprised of the facts?” she asked. 

“They may; but he is so strongly entrenched that his 
removal would be almost disastrous to me.” 

“How, papa? How?” she asked, now^ quickly perceiving 
a new gleam of the entangling meshes of business associates. 

“By turning them against me, if the story should turn 
out to be false,” he answered, reflectively. “But I shall 
lay it before them at once and investigate.” 

“In the event that you should remove him, would you 
bring Mr. Winthrope to your office?” asked Edith, and a 
tiny flush suffused her cheeks. 

“No; Mr. Winthrope must remain in New York,” un- 
thinking of the effect his answer might have on his daughter. 

Edith turned a little pale at this response, and her hand 
trembled in his. 

“Why, Edith, are you so much interested in him that you 
want him to be ever present?” asked the father, noting the 
tremor of her hand. 

“Oh, no, papa — not that much — yes — what am I saying, 
papa — I don’t know,” she replied, excitedly, turning her 


EDITH AND JOHN 


183 


head at the sound of her mother approaching, which seemed 
to have been prearranged at that moment ; but, of course, was 
not. Mrs. Jarney left, after seeing the interview was private. 

“It appears to me, Edith, that you are acting strangely 
about this matter,” said her father, beginning to be enlight- 
ened. 

“Papa, I — I — love him,” she whispered in his ear, as 
she put her cheek up to his to hide the blushes in her face, 
and to conceal his own countenance which she expected to 
see turn into a frown upon her at this unexpected answer. 
“Papa, you will forgive me, won’t you? — yes, you will. It 
is my heart, dear papa — I cannot help it — do forgive me?” 
she went on, with her eyes filled with tears of happiness 
and weakness and misery over her uncontrollable feelings. 

“Let me see your face, Edith?” said her father, making 
an effort to turn his head, which she held pressed to her own. 

“No, no; I won’t papa, till you say you will forgive me,” 
she answered, kissing him. 

‘ ‘ To keep peace, Edith, I will forgive you ; let me see your 
face?” 

‘ ‘ There ! ’ ’ she exclaimed, suddenly releasing him, and 
standing off, with tear stains marking through her flushes, 
and her hair tousled by the performance. 

“I believe you,” he said, beholding her in a state of mixed 
emotions; “but I am not yet ready to approve of your 
selection.” 

Her heart sank at this answer, and she sank to the floor 
by his side. Throwing one arm over his knee, and her head 
upon her arm, she burst into a fit of passionate grief that 
shook her frame. 

“My dear Edith,” said he, placing his hand on her head, 
grieved himself by her outburst of new affliction, “you cause 
me grief. I would not hurt your dear little heart for any- 
thing. Now, come, explain to me fully what that heart of 
yours tells you?” 

She arose, half laughing, half crying, almost hysterically 
discomposed, rubbing her tears away, as she smiled through 
them rolling down her face. 

“I feel ashamed, papa, for being so weak; but I cannot 
help it,” she said, sitting down on his knee, and throwing 
her head upon his shoulder and one arm around his neck. 

“Well! Edith, I am in sympathy with you,” said he; 


184 


EDITH AND JOHN 


‘^but you gave me a severe shock being so plainly spoken 
about such an affair of the heart. Does he suspect it of you?'’ 

“I do not think so, papa — but, papa, he told Star that 
he loved me, and told her not to tell — and, goosey that she 
is, she told me, and caused me more — because he said he 
could not expect to ever meet me on the same level; and 
that is all I have against him — ’ ’ 

“Well! Of all things I ever heard of,” said the father. 
“I had not been inclined to interfere with you, Edith, in such 
affairs; but I — ” he hesitated. “Yo.u make your choice, but 
be careful, child; be careful.” 

“Don’t you think he is good, papa?” she asked. 

“Very good — fine — perfect, Edith! I should not dis- 
favor him; but he must love you for your own dear self 
before I shall ever give my consent.” 

“He may never find it out, papa,” she said, drearily; 
“and if he does not, I shall never let him know, and shall go 
through the world alone.” 

“That is noble in you, Edith,” said her father, kissing 
her. “It is time for me to go,” he said, as she released him. 

On arriving at his office, Mr. Jarney was informed that 
Mr. Monroe had quietly taken himself off that morning for 
New York. He was further informed that Mr. Monroe had 
been requested to make the trip by certain members of the 
Board of Directors; and further, that he was entrusted with 
a large sum of money, in the form of drafts, made payable 
to the order of the treasurer of the company at the Broadway 
office. When this news was flashed upon Mr. Jarney, there 
seemed to penetrate his tractable mind, like a thunderbolt, 
the concatenating links of a plot, too realistic to be waived 
aside; which he was prone to do, when Edith gave him her 
story that morning. 

Side by side with the facts concerning Monroe’s leave- 
taking and purpose, he also learned that the genteel ghost 
had taken with him certain office books and papers, to be 
used in checking over accounts while auditing the books of 
the branch office. This was not in accordance with prece- 
dence, and proved another corroborative circumstance in the 
duplicity of the culpable Monroe. 

Putting all these correlated facts together, Mr. Jarney, 
after due deliberation, and after duely weighing them all 


EDITH AND JOHN 


185 


as incriminating integral parts, and after combining them 
with the main story of the plot, arrived at the inevitable 
conclusion that Monroe was up to some deviltry that should 
be probed to the bottom. He, therefore, called a meeting of 
the Board of Directors, and put the whole question, in all 
its phases, before that body. It was almost noon when the 
board met. They must act without going through the circum- 
locution of formal discussion and the entanglements of red 
tape, he told them. Some of the members were for postpon- 
ing the meeting till the next day, to await a telegram from 
New York, so great was their faith in Monroe’s honor. Mon- 
roe, they said, would be in the metropolis on the morrow. 
The procrastinating members prevailed in their vote on the 
question, and adjournment was had till the next day. 

But Mr. Jarney was not disconcerted, nor did he allow 
himself to be wholly blocked in his plan of action. So as 
soon as the board had arrived at the decision to go slow, he 
took it upon himself, knowing the shrewdness of John Win- 
thrope, to send him a private wire, addressed personally, 
briefly saying: 

“Beware of Monroe; I will be there tomorrow afternoon, 
if possible.” 

Dispatching this message, Mr. Jarney returned home, re- 
lated to Edith what he had discovered as confirmatory evi- 
dence against Monroe, got ready, and left on the next train 
for the seat of trouble. 

Edith, from the morning of her conversation with her 
father to the time she received a wire from him, went 
through a siege of terrible mental conflicts. She confided in 
no one, at first, not even Star, the cause of her father’s sud- 
den call to New York. She was in a highly nervous fright 
throughout the hours that seemed never to pass between his 
going and the receipt of the telegram. Her flights of fancy 
went to unreasonable complications for the doomed young 
man in the New York office. She thought she must rescue 
him at all odds to her health. Had she been in a condition 
physically able to bear the journey, she would have gone 
alone, if need be ; or with her father, if permitted ; but as it 
was, she remained in her prison like an unwilling subject in 
a sanitorium. Thus exhibiting ah excitable demeanor in her 
actions, her mother and Star made futile attempts to draw 
from her the cause of her fervid agitation. Still strung 


186 


EDITH AND JOHN 


to a high tension of determination, still overcome with an 
uncommon fear, still anxious and studiously meditating over 
the eventualities that might come to pass before her father 
should reach his destination, she wandered about the house 
in uncontrollable perturbation, sticking tenaciously to her 
secret. 

‘ ' Edith, said Star, approaching her in one of her rounds 
of walking the floor, “come, tell me what is agitating you 
so today, that I might be of help.” 

Placing her arm around Star’s waist, without a word, she 
drew Star along in her walk, looking dreamily, and seeing 
nothing, save what the illusive eye might see in the distance. 
Star returned the friendly embrace of Edith, and with their 
arms around each other, the two walked and walked, both 
silent. Edith silent over what she was pondering on. Star 
silent over what she feared was an unnatural mental balance. 

“Are you ill today, Edith?” asked Star. 

“Oh, no. Star; I am feeling very well today,” replied 
Edith. 

“But you are so quiet and unresponsive that I can’t quite 
make you out,” said Star. 

Then leading Star to the window where she sat with her 
father the day before, Edith asked her to sit down that she 
might have a word with her. 

“Star,” she said, seriously, relenting in her purpose to 
keep her secret longer, “what you told me two nights ago 
I have discovered to be too true — at least in a circumstantial 
way,” said Edith. 

“Why, then, haven’t you told me, Edith, so that I could 
have a fellow-feeling for you?” asked Star. 

“Papa requested me to keep it a secret till he returns; 
which I should do. But, deary, you know I am like 
you, it is hard to keep a secret,” said Edith, still uncertain 
whether to proceed farther. 

“Now, my dear Edith! I never tell anybody any secrets 
but you, and you tell them to nobody else, and you never tell 
any to me, so that is as far as yours ever get.” 

“Star, I must refreshen your memory a little,” said Edith, 
playfully. “I am not scolding you, you know; but just re- 
minding you a little. Now, didn’t you tell Mr. Winthrope 
something?” 

“Well, wasn’t he entitled to it?” said Star, laughing. 


EDITH AND JOHN 


187 


‘‘Then you won’t, in this instance, tell anybody?” 

“No-o — hope ’m ’die,” returned Star, crossing her breast. 

“Papa has gone to New York to intercept Monroe.” 

“Has he?” said Star, with wide eyes. “Monroe, then, 
has gone?” 

“Went yesterday morning before papa reached his office. 
Papa learned some things that substantiated what Mr. Die- 
man told you, and, putting everything together, he became 
convinced of the truthfulness of the stratagem of that man 
Monroe to bring Mr. Winthrope into disrepute. Star, had 
Monroe succeeded in his designs before I had learned the 
true status of affairs, I should not have believed anything 
against him ; but now that I have been forewarned, I shall 
never lose faith in his honor and integrity. Star, I told papa 
of my love for him, which papa did not accept pleasantly at 
first, thinking I was in fun, or doing it as a lark to tease 
him; but when he realized I was never more serious, he 
called him a fine, perfect young man, and was pleased. There, 
Star, I have told you what has been on my mind since yester- 
day. Am I a goosey still?” 

“You are a little dove, Edith,” said Star, sweetly. 

“Star, I should like to see Mr. Dieman,” said Edith, 
changing the subject. “Can you have him come here?” 

“I may; but it is doubtful.” 

“I would go to him, if I could.” 

“He has a young man named Eli Jerey, who transacts 
business matters for him. He might be summoned. Mr. Die- 
man places implicit confidence in him. Everything now must 
be conveyed through him to Mr. Dieman, I am told. I have 
seen Mr. Jerey; and I can have him called here to see 
you for whatever you might want to impose upon Mr. Die- 
man.” 

“Is Mr. Dieman so exclusive as that?” asked Edith. 

“He is, indeed, Edith. Since his marriage to mother, he 
has set up in great state, and does nothing but look after 
his family affairs personally, and transacts other affairs by 
the way of Mr. Jerey.” 

“You will vouch for his trustworthiness? at least you 
can promise that much through what Mr. Dieman represents 
him to be?” 

“Oh, yes; whatever Mr. Dieman says can be relied on.” 

“Then you may have Mr. Jerey call here at eight o’clock 
this evening, if he can come.” ^ 


188 


EDITH AND JOHN 


“Shall I call him now?” asked Star, rising to go to the 
phone to have a talk with that gentleman. 

“Yes. Papa must be in New York by this time; I should 
know soon, by wire, what Monroe has accomplished,” said 
Edith, as Star was leaving her. 


CHAPTER XXIV 

ELI JEREY IS CALLED INTO REQUISITION. 

It is wonderful how prosperity transcends every other 
medium in working a transformation in a poor stick of 
humanity, who has been chortled, like a shuttle-lock, through 
the shifting warp of adversity. It is refreshing to observe, 
sometimes, how often men and women of lowly state can rise, 
as it were, by their own boot-straps from the great misfortune 
of having nothing to the ravishing luck of plentitude. It is, 
indeed, very promising to know that favoring chance does 
not fall altogether upon the many who are born with silver 
spoons in their mouths. 

It may not have been by his own boot-straps, unaided, 
that Eli Jerey rose to his plenary rank, or to his financial 
exhaltation. It may not have been luck alone, or chance, 
or extended aid, that hoisted him to the skies in the estima- 
tion of Peter Dieman; neither could it have been native abil- 
ity, for his qualifications were of the superficial kind, to the 
casual observer. 

However, whatever the cause might have been, it is one 
of the certainties of the things that be, that Eli was now 
in high favor with his former master, and was prospering 
like a well-conditioned house cat. For Peter was certainly 
expiating himself for all the cuffs and rebuffs that he had 
heaped upon that poor lad’s head during the period of his 
vengefulness. Eli was now made plenipotentiary extraordi- 
nary of the former junkman, with full rank of major-domo 
of his private affairs, insofar as they appertained, inci- 
dentally, to the junk shop, and the purveying of news of 
the System between the main totem himself and his sub- 
lunary lights. 

And this elevation of Eli remodeled him as a being. 


EDITH AND JOHN 


189 


Instead of the stoop-shouldered, thin-faced, frowsy-headed, 
dirty, unwashed, ill-clad, uncared-for individual that a scanty 
stipend produces, we now see an erect, sharp-featured, cleanly- 
shaved, neatly-clad, bright-eyed young man. Although not 
handsome, his face called for an adulatory responsiveness on 
the part of those who came in contact with him. Instead of 
having his hands continually soiled by the labors that he 
performed in sorting junk and displaying it to customers, 
it was not uncommon to see him going about the shop gloved 
in brown kid. Instead of a dark-brown lay-down-collar shirt 
that always gave him the appearance of a water front work- 
man, he wore boiled linen, decorated with a sparkling stud 
and flashy necktie. Instead of a greasy coat that hung 
loosely over his shoulders, he wore a neat business suit. In- 
stead of the sweat-marked slouch hat, that used to loll on 
one side of his head, he wore a derby. Instead of a chain 
made of leather, to which was attached a brass watch, he 
carried a gold ticker fastened to his vest by a delicately- 
linked chain. Instead of the black, filthy office, in which his 
master sat for years, and in which he sat for a time after 
his advancement, he could now be found in a bright, clean 
place, papered and tinsled and decorated, with a new desk 
to write at, and a leather-cushioned chair to recline in. 
Thus he appeared in his new role, when the phone rang one 
day, as it often did, but now with a different purport than 
ever before. 

‘ ‘ Hello ! ’ ’ responded Eli, taking down the receiver and 
adjusting it to his ear. 

“Yes; this is Mr. Jerey.’’ 

“Eli Jerey; yes.” 

“Yes; Mr. Dieman’s office.” 

“Very busy day; but we’re always open for new business.” 

“A private interview!” 

“Can’t you come to my office? — I never go out — except 
ordered by Mr. Dieman.” 

“Can I come without him knowing it?” 

“That depends on the business.” 

“Well; who wants me?” 

“Can’t set a time or date till I know.” 

“What! Mr. Jarney’s residence!” (Well, did you ever!” 
on the side). 

“Miss Jarney!” 


190 


EDITH AND JOHN 


'‘Who's this talking?" 

“Star Barton!" (Well, did you ever!" on the side.) 

“Where are you?" now more interested. 

“At Mr. Jarney's?" (“Well, what now?" on the side.; 

“What time?" (“Bless me!" on the side.) 

“Yes; 7 p. m. will do." (Ha, me!" on the side.) 

“I will be there." (“On the dot!" on the side.) 

Eli hung up the receiver, stood a moment tickling his 
right ear with his right forefinger, a habit of his. He was 
in a confused and perplexed state of mental consternation. 
Miss Barton! Miss Barton! Peter Dieman’s step-daughter! 
went through his head in a rolicking way. ‘ ‘ Hah ! Miss 
Barton! I’ve heard of her; and Miss Jarney — rich — young 
— poorty — and wants an interview with me! Humph!" he 
mused, after sitting down. “Well, I must make myself pre- 
sentable and go henceforth to meet them in all my dignity; 
yes, meet my superiors now in all my dignity — hah!" 

In due time Eli repaired to his room in the Monongahela 
House, a very ancient and a very honorable institution of 
its kind, no other being now suitable to Eli’s enlarged 
notions of refinement. He clothed himself in his best bib 
and tucker, swatted down his hair so flat that it looked 
as if it had been laid by a weaver’s hand to his swelling 
head, and powdered his sallow face till it was resplendent 
with the polish of good looks. 

Now, when all was completed he stood before the mirror, 
like a coquettish maid primping to make a hit, and there 
saw reflected back a very well appearing young gentleman. 
He saw all that the art of massaging and ointing and cologn- 
ing and talcuming and starching and tailoring could mould 
out of the material at hand. He saw reflected back a youth 
five feet ten, with hollow eyes, peaked face, broad high fore- 
head, condensed lips, and good teeth, long fingers, all sup- 
ported by a suit of black, full dress style, with low white 
vest and patent-leather shoes. He saw also a diamond in 
his shirt front, white necktie banding a high collar, dark 
gray gloves, gold-headed cane, and high silk hat. 

Before withdrawing from the allurements of the mirror. 
Eli touched his fingers to his lips, stroked his sandy eyebrows, 
turned around a time or two, with admiring glances over 
his shoulder, as he raised or lowered his brows, or opened 
his mouth to show his teeth to himself; adjusted the plug 


EDITH AND JOHN 


191 


correctly on his head, drew on his gloves, took his cane in 
one hand, and receded from his reflected self, with many 
glancing and furtive farewells at the glass; closing the door 
at last, regretful that he had so soon to part company with 
such an admirable picture of budding manhood. 

Settling himself inside a glass enclosed auto, he was 
whizzed through the appalling roar and grime of the city, 
like the formal gentleman that he was, sitting among the 
soft and heaving cushions, and looking to the passers-by, 
in his flight, like the silhouette of a grand bourgeois in 
contradistinction to the votaries of swelldom. In his present 
state of perverted obsequiousness, Eli was intensely vain, 
usually; but now, while in the gentlemanly act of calling 
upon a lady, so rich that he could not count all her money 
did he live a thousand years, and at her own request, for 
an interview, he was ludicrously haughty, and hopelessly 
ignorant of the rules of deportment surrounding the secluded 
haunts of the reflned and the mighty ones of power and 
place. Any failings that he had, he did not recognize. His 
limitations were his blisses. What he did not know, he 
took as a matter of no consequence. If he saw a thing, it 
permeated him with unwarped fascination; if he did not see 
it clearly, he was not troubled. Rising to his present state, 
was of more importance as to present results, than as to 
permanency. In truth, he was a queer combination of meri- 
torious attainments now, meaning well, and doing his best 
to be an efficient collaboratcr of his famous mentor — Peter 
Dieman. He was a person of little imagination. Everything 
was realistic to him. So, in journeying to the Jarneys on 
this auspicious occasion, he imagined very little about how he 
should act, or perform, or conduct himself, any more than 
what would come naturally to him. 

When he presented himself to the two young ladies in the 
drawing room of the mansion on the hill, he shocked them 
by sitting down with his hat on his head, though they could 
not help but admire his rich habiliments. 

‘‘May I take your hat?’^ said Edith, approaching him, of 
course expecting to receive that piece of flne head covering 
to deposit it where it belonged at such a time. 

“No, madam, no; it is just as well where it is,” he replied, 
showing his white teeth through a crooked smile. “I’ve been 
used to setting with it on.” 


192 


EDITH AND JOHN 


He was so unapproachable that Edith was embarrassed 
before him. Star had remembered him as the former dis- 
heartening clerk of her step-father. She had seen him when 
she had gone to the junk shop with her mother that time for 
the redemption of her kitchen utensils, and she had not for- 
gotten how cadaverous and impoverished he then looked. 

“I presume you remember me?” asked Star, to break 
the monotonous silence into which the interview had per- 
force fallen. 

“I don’t know that I do,” said he, showing his fine teeth 
again, and lifting his eyebrows. ‘‘So many people came into 
the store in those days that I paid little attention to them 
all.” 

“Don’t you remember the girl who was so poorly clad 
that was with her mother the day Mr. Dieman gave back 
the dishes her father had pawned, and against which you pro- 
tested?” asked Star. 

“Are you the gal?” he asked, with brightening face. 

“I am the gal,” returned Star, laughing. 

“Well! how time makes changes in this world,” he re- 
sponded, looking her over carefully, hardly believing that 
the pretty face of Star’s, with pretty gown to match, could 
possibly be the same. “It beats all; and you are the sister 
of all of Mr. Dieman ’s children?” 

“Mrs. Dieman ’s children,” she corrected. 

“Yes, that’s it — I know your sister May,” he said, with 
a smile. 

“Do you, really?” said Star. 

“I call on him often, and see her, sometimes — she’s a 
dandy, ’ ’ he said. 

“A fine girl,” corrected Edith. 

“Yes; mighty fine,” he answered, as he crossed his 
gloved hands over the head of his cane standing perpendicu- 
larly in front of him, and putting his chin down upon them, 
as if posing as a rejuvenated old man “by the wayside on 
a mossy stone,” looking steadily at them both. “And you 
are May’s sister? Well!” 

“I have that honor,” replied Star. 

“Well! Who would think it? You are so much poortier,” 
he said, quietly and naturally, without intending to be im- 
pertinent. 

Star blushed at first; but in a moment became vexed. 


EDITH AND JOHN 


193 


and looked very black at him; that is, as black as she could 
look, for no matter how she tempered up, not much sign 
of her resentment was ever evidenced in her face. Edith 
was astonished at his rudeness, and glanced at Star for an 
explanation of the bold manner of this young man, Eli, 
in his transparent innocence, did not feel the effects of 
their interchange of glances, and was not disturbed. Antici- 
pating that he might precipitate a scene by an unfortunate 
remark, Edith took up the subject that had caused her to 
have him present. 

“Mr. Jerey,” she began, faltering in her speech, “you 
are Mr. Dieman’s agent, I understand?” 

“I am,” he replied, loftily. 

“Do you know Mr. Monroe?” 

“I do.” 

“Do you know Mr. Morne?” 

“I do — he’s a scamp.” 

“Do you know Mr. Yenger?” 

“I do — he’s another scamp.” 

“Do you know my father?” 

“Not personally.” 

“Do you know Jacob Cobb?” 

“I do — he’s a— ” 

“Do you know Jasper Cobb?” 

“I do — he’s an — ” 

“Do you know James Dalis?” 

“I do — he’s a — ” 

“Well, now; has Mr. Dieman decided to continue keep- 
ing company with these people?” asked Edith, warming to 
her subject. 

“For what reason do you ask?” he asked, eyeing her 
closely, so much so that Edith was discomfitted by his sharp 
stare. 

“It is a matter that concerns me personally. Miss Barton 
here, and my father,” she answered. 

“That’s not very informing,” he replied. 

“Do you know Mr. John Winthrope, my father’s former 
secretary?” she asked. 

“I never saw him — don’t recall that I ever heard of 
liim — yes, believe so — didn’t Mr. Dieman speak to me 
once about him? (asking himself) — yes, believe he did. 
Well, what of him?” 


194 


EDITH AND JOHN 


‘'Do you know whether Mr. Dieman bears ill-will against 
him yet V’ 

“Let me see/’ said Eli, now in a cogitating tone, stiK 
with his chin upon his hands still on top of his cane, but 
lowering his eyes to the floor; “he never mentioned him but 
once, and then in connection with — let me see — what ? — 
with your father as secretary, sometime ago — got a phone ? ’ ’ 
he asked suddenly, now disposed toward being cautiously 
communicative. 

“Yes; do you wish to use it?” asked Edith. 

“I would like to before going farther in this talk. 
Where is it?” 

Edith then led the way to the phone room, Eli follow- 
ing, with his hat still on his head, to the disgust even of 
the servants. 

“I wish to be private,” he said to Edith and Star, seeing 
they were inclined to linger near. 

“As you wish.” they returned, departing and closing 
the door behind them. 

After flnishing his phoning, Eli emerged from the room, 
and strode through the dining room and on through to the 
drawing room, whistling a ditty, with his plug hat cocked 
back on his head, swinging his cane round and round, like 
one out walking for pleasure. He resumed his seat as before, 
with the ladies as his examiners. 

“Well?” said Edith. 

“He says he has no ill-will against Mr. Winthrope any 
more ; and requests me to take steps necessary to right any 
wrong against him. What’s your wish?” 

“Before I go farther,” said Edith, “may I ask you if 
it is Mr. Dieman ’s purpose to remain the go-between in the 
graft system, of which Mr. Cobb is the head?” 

“He’s making an effort to break from the gang — he’s 
been making the effort ever since he married; but it’s hard 
to let go,” said Eli, casting an admiring glance at Star. 

“Now, then; as to my wish, Mr. Jerey,” said Edith, try- 
ing to get his eyes *away from Star; “I want you to assist 
me and my father to break up the ring; in a quiet manner, 
if possible; if not quietly, then by law.” 

“What’s your object, mainly?” he asked. 

“To get such men as Monroe and his dupes and old Mr. 
Cobb into the toils. These men have not been satisfied in 


EDITH AND JOHN 


195 


working the graft system for all they are worth, but they 
have been plotting for months against me and my father. 
Can I depend on you?” 

“You can. But what has Mr. Winthrope to do with it?” 

“That is a part of the plot against my father and me.” 

‘ ‘ Still I can ’t see — but never mind, I know the other 
fellers well, and will help you.” 

“First, get Mr. Dalis back from Europe, and — ” 

“Say, miss,” he broke in, “how did you know all this 
and these men?” 

“Dieman communicated the information to Miss Barton, 
and she to me.” 

“Ha!” he ejaculated, and then subsided into a quiet turn 
for a few moments. “He did, eh?” he proceeded; “then I 
know he’ll approve anything I agree to here. Understand, 
I only carry information betwen Mr. Dieman and the lower 
men.” 

“I understand,” said Edith. 

“I will get Mr. Dieman to throw them all overboard soon 
as I can get my hooks to going,” he replied, rising. “Where 
is Mr. Winthrope?” 

“In New York,” replied Edith, rising also, and standing 
awkwardly by waiting for him to move. 

“I don’t understand where he comes in?” said Eli, as he 
placed his cane between his arms behind his back, and sprad- 
ling out his legs, with his hat cocked back. 

“That is another matter,” said Edith, attempting to 
pass it over. 

“I am very busy,” he said, half- whistling a tune, then 
drawing his legs together and whirling round on one foot, 
he directed his eyes upon Star, and remarked: “You are so 
much poortier than your sister May; and this young lady 
(turning to Edith) is poortier than all the rest,” after which 
he smiled broadly, showing his good teeth. 

It was rather a delicate moment for the young ladies. 
It was hard to reprove him, when they had solicited his aid 
in their great undertaking. Star was vexed. Edith was dis- 
appointed in him, for she expected that he would show a 
little more solicitude for her affairs than he showed in his 
actions and answers to her questions. She drew down her 
dark brows when he spoke as he did, feeling indignant, 
and looking at him sharply, said: 


196 


EDITH AND JOHN 


“Mr. Jerey, that is very impolite in you.” 

“Oh, my! beg your pardon!” he said, with an innocent 
smile. “I am so used to talking to my own sisters when 
I go home that I really forgot where I was. If you will 
pardon me, I will go? and not do it any more — but that’s 
my opinion.” 

As he concluded his apology he simmered down as to 
smile, looked serious after seeing the ladies were provoked, 
struck the toe of his patents with his cane, set his hat 
squarel}^ upon his head, crossed his legs, put his hands in 
his pockets, with the cane under his right arm, smiled 
again, resumed a correct form of standing, expecting the 
while to hear the ladies go on with their scolding. But 
as they did not say any more, he turned round, and walked 
out as straightly as a West Pointer on parade, opened the 
door himself, and let himself out. After closing the door 
behind him, he stepped to the piazza, and stopped on the 
edge of it, gawking around like a country lout. 

He was nothing of the kind, being absolutely indifferent 
as to what people thought of him, or as to how he acted, so 
long as he was not immorally sensitized. He was playing 
his part in the drama of a great city’s life, and playing it 
excellently; so what did it matter, if the sticklers for for- 
mality were shocked. 

Going down the long walk through the Jarney grounds, 
with frosted incandescents throwing fantastic shadows about 
him. he whistled something that sounded like a hot time in 
the old town — sometime soon. 


CHAPTER XXV. 

MONROE IS CAUGHT IN A NET OF HIS OWN WEAVING. 

Ever efficient and ever advancing, though the time since 
he left his mountain home was short, John Winthrope had 
pressed onward and upward till he was not only the assistant 
treasurer in the New York office, but stood high in the favor 
of the heads of the great firm; and, if he continued on his 
outlined course, promised to enjoy still further favors and 
special privileges. His rapid rising, his pecuniary uplift. 


EDITH AND JOHN 


197 


his progress in favor, his increasing enjoyment of privilege, 
his continuing prosperity, did in nowise diminish his sense 
of duty, nor beguile him from that course which he had 
laid out to follow when he first became obsessed with the 
idea of making his mark in the world of finance, as seen 
through the eyes of steel and iron. 

During all the months, dreary though they were, that 
he went through in the city of Pittsburgh, he continued to 
live, according to his own adopted code, at the cheap lodg- 
ing house in Diamond alley. The emoluments of his posi- 
tion, handsome though they might be considered for one so 
young as he, and for one so new in the ranks of the em- 
ployed, were not any more compensatory than the allot- 
ments, as per schedule of bills to be met, demanded. For, 
after paying for his simple lodging, his small personal re- 
quirements, and sequestering a sum for the inevitable rainy 
day, he sent the balance to his parents to assist them in the 
liquidation of a debt of purchase on their home in the hills 
beyond the roar and turmoil of business; to which home he 
hoped to go sometime, an ever present dream, to spend his 
leisure days, or to rest when the burdens of life should be- 
come too great for his shoulders to carry. 

Being steadfast of purpose, and retired in a social way, 
he had it over other men in his unquenchable ambition to 
make good — in that, instead of idling away his time in 
questionable company, as so many such young men do, or 
loafing about clubs being a good fellow at a high cost, he 
enlarged his knowledge of the details of business by utiliz- 
ing his spare moments in courses of suitable studies, in which 
he exercised his energies and ability to their utmost. 

After being transferred to his new post, he did not 
change his plans, even though his compensation was en- 
hanced to a surprising and very agreeable amount; nor did 
he deviate one iota from his habits of living. He did one 
thing, however, which is pardonable and commendable, and 
that w’as to dress as became his office with a much more 
satisfactory and becoming taste. Blessed with good looks, 
a frank, open countenance, a finished polish, and a natural 
grace, any personal adornment was befitting to him. In his 
case, the clothes did not make the man, but the man made 
the clothes, as is often true in some men and women. By 
gradual degrees, his cheap shop clothes, as they gave way 


198 


EDITH AND JOHN 


to the ravages of wear and time, were displaced by stylish 
modern cuts, tailored and otherwise; but this only happened 
as wages increased and exigencies demanded. 

So he may now be seen at his desk in a neatly fitting 
business suit of dark serge, with creases in the trousers, 
and his coat collar always clean of dandruff and falling hair. 
His shirt fronts were the nattiest, his collars the whitest, 
his ties the neatest, his shoes the highest polished of anyone 
in the office. With his dark-brown hair, clear blue eyes, fair 
skin, smooth face and dark eyebrows, he could well be envied 
by those less gifted. 

Still, with all these characteristics, he was the least recon- 
ciled to his lot. In March he was called upon to take his 
leave for New York. In March he was compelled to take 
leave of the sick young woman, whom he had visited every 
day without a break for months by force of the most un- 
usual circumstances that ever came to a young man, or to 
any man, perhaps. He had become so accustomed to these 
daily visits to Edith’s bedside, and had become so fraught 
with the most formidable fire of life, that when the final day 
came round, he seemed to have buried the object before his 
going, and lived in a perpetual dream thereafter, still per- 
plexed and confounded by a mystery. 

Edith was not yet well when he last looked upon her 
face; but signs of improvement were ever growing brighter. 
This is what gave him such pain of heart — the thought that 
he had to leave when the time had come for him to see her 
in her reason. But still, he thought, perhaps it was for the 
best. For was she not laboring under an hallucination, a 
delusion, a wild estrangement of the senses? And, of 
course, when she came to herself, he would, by virtue of the 
natural laws of caste, have to go his own way after all, and 
find solace for his passion in some other person less worthy. 
It was better, thought he, that he was away — so far away 
that he should never see her again; and time, the sure healer 
of all ills, of all regrets, of all sorrows, of all misery, would 
bind his wounds from the harrowing effects of proud fiesh. 
He could never hope, was his everlasting complaint, to vie 
with other men in the conquest of her heart. So why fret 
away his time on such an improbable question? Seeing all 
these things in this light, and believing in them seriously 
and honorably, he exerted his best endeavors to cast the 


EDITH AND JOHN 


190 


burden from his soul. But the burden was too heavily laden 
to be so easily thrust aside. 

He had not heard from her since the last evening he left 
her home — except on one occasion, when a letter from her 
father to another member of the firm in the branch office, 
indirectly referred to her improving condition. This was 
all — a very slim thread it was upon which to build any 
hope that she, in her enlightening mind, ever again called for 
him, which seemed proof sufficient to convince him of his 
preconceived opinion. 

But — why? but — why? he always asked himself, did 
she make such an impression on him, unless he had 
struck, in her heart, a responsive chord. No matter how he 
reasoned, he invariably got back to the premises of his theme, 
namely, that he could not hope for any recognition on her 
part so long as their stations in life were miles and miles 
apart. 

He had spent many days on this unsolvable proposition, 
in all its various phases, and was still weighing it in his 
mind, even while busily engaged at his desk, when, one day, 
Miram Monroe was announced, and led into . his office 
with all those outrageous formalities that flunkies about such 
offices show to their superior beings, who have the brains and 
money to conduct gigantic industrial corporations. Mr. Win- 
thrope was surprised more than he felt able to express him- 
self; but he good-humoredly extended his hand and saluted 
him with a cheerful, ‘'How are you? and how are all the 
people back in old Pittsburgh,’’ meaning, of course, the people 
only in the main office. 

Mr. Monroe was as stoical as ever, but he greeted John 
with considerable more cordiality than had been his wont. 
“They are all prospering,” he answered, as he glanced 
around the room. 

John watched him closely, in a critical way, having in 
mind the telegram he had received the day previous from 
Mr. Jarney that said, “Beware of Monroe.” John did not 
fully understand the meaning of this telegram; but he read 
its significance in the face of the man standing now before 
him, which, as he then looked at it, presented a mixture of 
tragedy, comedy, treachery and sculduggery. He saw these 
traits now in Monroe, not that his face had presented them 
to him on any other occasion, but the telegram had revealed 


200 


EDITH AND JOHN 


to him too forcibly what he could not before comprehend. 
Why did Mr. Jarney send it, if the coming of Monroe was 
not for some insidious purpose? he asked himself. 

“You do not often come to New York, Mr. Monroe — at 
least, not to this office,” said John, breaking the ice for a 
plunge into Mr. Monroe’s perverseness toward a hateful 
silence. 

“Not often,” he answered, extracting some papers from 
an inside coat pocket. He began deliberately to run over 
these papers, as if looking for a particular one. Finding 
one that semed to meet his searching approval, he drew up 
a chair to a desk in the middle of the room and sat down, 
still very deliberately, with his eyes bent upon the paper 
that he held in his hand. 

Concluding that Monroe was not willing to be communi- 
cative about his errand, John sat down at his own desk. 
Scrutinizing Monroe from a side view, he saw it was the 
same face that was so indefinable to him in his apprentice- 
ship in the head office ; the same lengthened visage that 
then struck him so forcibly as that of a mountebank, clothed 
in undeserving power; the same white, wrinkleless skin 
that reminded him perpetually of a true portraiture of a 
ghost. John sat spell-bound, drawn irrisistably to this pecu- 
liarly eccentric man. 

Monroe sat pouring over his papers, as if it had been 
his custom to come there every day and do the same thing, 
unbelievably composed in his manner. To John, there was 
a mephistophelean aspect about Monroe, as he sat at the 
desk, apparently in the throes of some abstruse problem that 
he could not readily make out. But, however, after awhile 
Monroe semed to have reached a solution of what he was 
delving into, and directly turned and faced John, with his 
usual inane stare. 

“Mr. Winthrope,” said he, with no change in the monoto- 
nous enunciation of his words, so precise did he give utter- 
ance to them, “there seems to be an error in your accounts, 
which indicates a shortage in this office.” 

“An error! A shortage!” gasped John, as if he had 
been stabbed from behind with a dagger. 

“Yes;” answered Monroe very slowly, very mouse-like, 
very aggravatingly, ‘ ‘ a shortage — or an error. ’ ’ He straight- 
ened up in his chair, after saying this, to see the effect of 
his assertion in John’s countenance. 


EDITH AND JOHN 


201 


Recovering his composure in a moment or so, John drew 
down his eyebrows to a scornful straightness, and glared at 
his accuser. John was not very often convert able to such 
an exhibition of temper; but when his name and his honor 
were brought under reproach, his resentment became visibly 
uncontrollable. 

‘‘Do you mean, Mr. Monroe,” said John, looking straight 
into his gray-green eyes, “that I am short in my accounts 
with this office?” 

“That is my intimation,” replied the insinuating Monroe, 
opening his mouth squarely at the emphasizing of “my”. “I 
have been sent here to have a reckoning with you.” 

The very bluntness of his statement was so monstrous 
to John, that he could not, for a short time, comprehend 
what it meant for him. The very essence of the assertion 
was too much for his grasp, so horrified was he for the few 
moments that he sat facing the serene detractor of his char- 
acter. The very thought of such a crime was so contrary 
to his nature, that he was almost blind from the sensations 
of the blow coursing through him. 

“Are you in earnest? or are you here to jest with me, 
Mr. Monroe?” asked John, rousing himself to face the in- 
evitable. 

“I am in dead earnest,” answered Monroe. 

“Then you,” responded John, weighing his words, “lie — 
or some one else — is lying — for — you. ’ ’ 

“Don’t get agitated and go off half-cocked,” said Mon- 
roe, in the same icy tone as before. “I’ll show to you, in 
due time, where you have been peculating.” 

At first, John was on the point of taking physical issue 
with the challenger of his good name; but remembering the 
significant telegram from Mr. Jarney, and remembering also 
that he was at a disadvantage with Monroe over the ques- 
tion of fact, he subdued his passionate felings, and thought 
he would parley for time to await the coming of Mr. Jarney 
before long. 

“Some one has been doctoring the books,” said John, 
smoothly, “if there is an apparent defalcation. I know what 
I have been doing, Mr. Monroe. My cash has balanced each 
day. My accounts in this office are straight, Mr. Monroe. 
I am straight, Mr. Monroe. You are crooked. And I will 
have no more from you till my superiors have been con- 
sulted.” 


202 


EDITH AND JOHN 


“Well, Mr. Winthrope,” responded Monroe to John’s 
asseveration, “I am the auditor of the firm for this office, 
and I am to be consulted first. According to our books you 
are short. I was, therefore, sent here to have an accounting 
with you, and if I find that our books are correct and your 
accounts wrong, I am to have a warrant issued for your 
arrest. Believe me, Mr. Winthrope, when I say that I find 
an error which indicates peculating on your part. I do not 
want to see your name blackened by an exposure that would 
naturally follow should I take it in my head to proceed 
against you. I have a free hand to act any way I choose, 
be that what it may. Now, I can fix this matter up for 
you so that no word of it will get out, and so that you can 
leave with money in your pockets, and mine, and no one will 
be the wiser. I can compromise the matter by you being 
reasonable. Will you be reasonable and enter into my 
scheme ? ” 

John was surely astounded at this long speech of Mon- 
roe’s. He studied a short moment. He did not want to com- 
promise himself with Monroe in any scheme that, if he were 
guilty, would cover up the crime with which he was charged. 
If he was found to be responsible for any shortage, he was 
fully willing to take the consequences which arrest and 
exposure might entail, rather than attempt to clear himself 
of the blame, if blamable. But not being guilty, as he had 
good reason to believe, he held that justice, unless merci- 
lessly blind, would deal fairly with him. Moreover, he 
would be making a mistake if he did not draw Monroe out, 
and secure from him his plan of a secret compromise. 

“How would you propose compromising the matter, if I 
am guilty?” he asked. 

“By leaguing with you,” answered Monroe, artlessly. 

“Leaguing with me?” said John, doubtful of his meaning. 

“Yes,” he answered. “I have a draft here for one 
hundred thousand, made payable to the treasurer of the New 
York office. You can get the money yourself by signing it as 
assistant treasurer. Get it, and we will divide the amount. 
I will fix the books at the other end so that a discovery 
cannot be made till we are safely in Europe or South America. 
Will you do it?” 

A new idea came to John, growing on him gradually as 
Monroe unfolded his nefarious scheme. 


EDITH AND JOHN 


203 


“Yes; I will do it,” he answered, with alacrity. “Where 
is the draft?” 

Monroe immediately pulled the draft from an inside 
pocket of his vest. He looked it over, as if he regretted to 
give it up; then he turned it over to John, with a hesitating 
hand. 

“Get the money,” said Monroe, without an intimation 
that he was pleased, or not pleased, over the readiness with 
which John seemed to be falling into his trap. 

John leisurely put the draft with a number of other 
drafts he had in his possession belonging to the firm, placed 
them all together in the firm’s bank book, and retreated, 
without a word, from the enervating personality of Monroe. 
After depositing the entire sum in the name of the firm, he 
returned to the office to report to Monroe. 

“That is rather a crude piece of business, Mr. Monroe,” 
said John, as he entered the office. Standing with folded 
arms on the opposite side of him at the flat-top desk, he 
gave a laugh, and smiled sarcastically, as he said: “Crude! 
I should say; so crude that it smells of rusted iron!” 

Monroe looked up nonplused at the haughty and sneer- 
ing tone of his inferior; but he showed no irritation. 

''Did you get the money?” asked Monroe, blandly. 

“I did,” answered John, good naturedly. 

“Well, divide up,” said Monroe, having doubts. 

“Oh, I forgot to return with it, Monroe,” replied John, 
as he laughed in his superior’s face. “I placed it to the 
credit of the firm. Believing there was no hurry about divid- 
ing up. and thinking tomorrow would do as well as today for 
that little formality, I changed my mind between here and 
the bank. The money will keep where it is, Mr. Monroe.” 

The door of the office opened. The form of Mr. Jarney 
stood in it for a brief time. Then he closed the door and 
stood inside the room. He did not advance at once. As Mr. 
Monroe saw him first, his face took on a yellow pallor. John 
noticed the change in the coloring of his marbled visage, 
and turned about. Seeing who the intruder was, he took a 
few steps across the room, and lively grasped his former 
master by the hand. 

“Glad to see you, Mr. Jarney; very glad,” said John. 

Mr. Jarney, in turn, greeted John very warmly, and said 
he was inexpressively happy to see him looking so robust, 


204 


EDITH AND JOHN 


and hoped that he was still the same unpolluted young 
man as when he first met him. All of which abashed John 
so that he blushed. 

“Did you get my telegram?” he asked John, yet not 
turning to greet Monroe, who sat without a tremor at the 
desk. 

“Yes; I have been looking for you all day,” replied John. 
“Here is Mr. Monroe,” he said, as he turned and waved 
his hand toward that brazen piece of trickery. 

“Yes; yes; I see Mr. Monroe,” said Mr. Jarney, shoot- 
ing his sharpened glances at him. “I came here to see 
about some little tricks he is up to. What have you accom- 
plished, Mr. Monroe?” 

“Aren’t you laboring under a misapprehension, Mr. Jar- 
ney?” asked the ghost. 

“Oh, not at all, Mr. Monroe,” said Mr. Jarney. “I have 
found you out. I came here to beard you before this young 
man,” rising almost to the angry point in the vehemence 
of his threat. 

“Why, Mr. Jarney,” said the lamentable Monroe, “what 
have I done that you, whom I have always served so faith- 
fully, should hurl aspersions upon my name and cast reflec- 
tions upon my integrity?” 

“Your name and integrity!” said Mr. Jarney, with ris- 
ing voice. “You haven’t either. Where is that draft and 
those office books? Turn them over immediately to Mr. Win- 
thrope here for safe keeping.” 

“I have already deposited the draft,” interrupted John. 
“Mr. Monroe proposed to me that we cash it and divide the 
money. I assented — of course not. He has accused me of 
being short in my accounts. But he lies — I am not afraid 
of an investigation, Mr. Monroe.” 

“Is this true, Mr. Monroe?” asked Mr. Jarney, fiercely, 
and piercing him through and through with his firmness. 

Mr. Monroe cowered before Mr. Jarney ’s rage, like an 
abject criminal brought to the confession stage of his stricken 
conscience, but as blank as ever. 

“Is this true, Mr. Monroe?” demanded Mr. Jarney again, 
still upbraiding him by his fierce tone. 

“I am afraid it is,” responded Monroe, meekly, with a 
crestfallen tone, but no change in his countenance. 

“I am very sorry for you, Mr. Monroe,” said Mr. Jarney, 


EDITH AND JOHN 


205 


relentingly. ‘H was infuriated with you a moment ago, and 
meant to be harsh ; but now all that I can say is, that you 
deserve my pity. Ingratitude is the worst of all mean traits, 
Mr. Monroe. My advice to you, coupled with my injunction, 
is that you hasten to the Pittsburgh office, close up your 
accounts and leave the employment of the firm, taking the 
other two dupes with you. You may go now. I have no 
further use for you here.” 

Mr. Monroe sat dumbly under this withering dressing up ; 
but he was obdurate in his inexpressiveness. Taking Mr. 
Jarney’s cue, he arose, put on his hat, and departed, without 
a farewell to either one. 

That was the last they ever saw of poor Monroe, alive. 
His body was found next day on a muddy shore, where the 
sewer rats fight among themselves for a share of the food 
that the foul sewage spews out with its bile. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

THE CHIEF GRAFTER IS FOREWARNED AND GOES TO EUROPE. 

Jacob Cobb, the big boss, sat in his easy chair, surrounded 
by his spendthrift family, with whom he was communing on 
the glories of that fame which money brings to those who 
earn not, nor spin. 

It was a bright evening in May, with a red sun setting 
through the upper haze on the horizon, and throwing back 
through the windows of his mansion a fiery glare, like the 
gleam of a blast furnace permeating the density of the pall 
that ever hangs over the valleys skirting the hills to either 
side. Had he, or they, or any of them, been of a meditative 
turn, the evening scene might have been likened to the 
scenes that surround the tempestuous lives of those who toil 
and dwell where the counterpart of the sun, in this com- 
parison, holds sway throughout the day and night. 

But as they were not of a meditative turn, they never 
saw the black old buildings of the workmen, as grimy as the 
squat old mills themselves spoutting fire from thousands of 
smoke-stacks, all huddled together in the narrow ways and 
defiles, like so many barbarous places of habitation, with 


206 


EDITH AND JOHN 


sooty walls and streaked window panes, and fuming chimney 
tops, and nowhere scarcely a sign of vegetation to brighten 
up the dull tones of the desolation. They never saw the 
grim-visaged, hard-fisted, half-naked men, sweating blood, 
almost, subjecting the native element of iron to the changing 
process of the caves of fire, before which they worked and 
strained their energies to produce the finished product that 
made it possible for men like Cobb to live in splendor. They 
never saw the simple homes, the poor homes, the impoverished 
homes of some of these workmen; or their children in their 
styles, their plays, their sports, their love-making, their 
dutifulness to parent, their respect for law, or their short- 
comings ; nor heard their ambitious cry ; nor saw their cheerful 
endeavors to improve their worldly affairs ; nor saw the blight 
of poverty, nor the curse of rum. They saw nothing, save 
the rolling smoke from the factory fires which the poor man 
teased; and, even though it brought them plenty, it gave 
them long periods of annoyance that they had to endure it. 
They only saw the setting sun, in that direction, going down 
into a tarnished sky. But they saw, in the iridescence of their 
surroundings, the gloat of pomp, the pride of power, the sen- 
sen of gayety, the joy of lust, the glib of society, the whirl 
of scandal — the right to graft. 

Jacob Cobb was at ease, if ever there was a man in 
such a heaven of exalted purification, as he sat in his easy 
chair on this evening. It was the time of his domestic 
enjoyment, in which no one ever took more delight, the 
divorce scandal talk to the contrary nothwithstanding ; and 
this is one thing to his credit, if he should have credit for 
anything he has done in this world. Money was his God. 
Not being competent to amass a fortune, had he applied his 
talents in genuine business, he, early in life, became a petty 
politician. Starting as an election board clerk, he ascended 
the winding stairs of a ward heeler up the many flights till 
he reached the chief seat in the inner chamber of the Temple 
of the Bosses, and there he reigned — till he should be de- 
throned by an aroused public conscience. 

He was now in the hey-day of his power, and he ruled 
with a clenched fist; albeit, at times, he heard temblors below 
him that might become powerful enough to shake him from 
his seat. Through a College of Embasies, with Peter Dieman 
as the dean, he worked the system through the tortuous 
windings of every channel of business, collecting his tiths 


EDITH AND JOHN 


207 


as Pharoah collected his charges on his garnerings in the seven 
years of famine, with about as pitiless a hand. And these 
tithings were heavy. They poured into the System’s exchequer 
from every source, like the waters that flowed by the city 
of his birth to form the La Belle Reviere ; but, unlike that 
stream, which flowed to a bigger sea, they stopped at Cobb’s 
gate to enter silently into his dark pool to disappear via an 
unseen outlet. 

Jacob, not being wholly satisfied with what was clandes- 
tinely coming his way, connived at other schemes to per- 
petuate the inflow to his coffers; which was to his shame. 
The worst of which of his many other designs, was to marry 
his children to rich men or women, and divide the loot, if 
money may be christened, in this instance, by that pelfic name. 
Susanna, the eldest, and Marjorie, the youngest of his two 
daughters, were already bargained for by two young scions 
of the rich who had no more reputation to hang to them than 
discarded touts of the underworld; but their daddies had 
money, and that counted for much, while innocence had to 
suffer. But there was Jasper yet, his own young hopeful, 
past the age of twenty-six, and not yet disposed of. A 
glimpse into that young man’s character has been given in 
a previous chapter, so here it will suffice to say that he was 
a profligate of the e vilest sort. And Jacob wanted him to 
capture Edith Jarney! God forbid such a union! Purity 
joined to degradation in holy wedlock? Not if Edith Jarney 
knew her mind; for it would be unholy wedlock. Mrs. Cobb 
was equally as mercenary with her children as their father. 
She it was that first proposed the horrid scheme. She it 
was that taught them how to ensnare the victims marked for 
their bows. She it was that led them to the idol that they 
were to worship. She it was that schooled them in the ways 
of snobbery. And they called her a doting mother. And 
Jacob willingly acquiesced. 

Those who teach that man is only a biological entity 
might find in such sons and daughters good subjects for their 
experimentation, and prove their theory by the aid of the 
divorce courts. 

‘‘Jasper, it is time for you to make some headway with 
Miss Jarney,” said his doting mother, on this evening, as 
they all sat around their father in his ease. 

Jasper, who had been sitting near in a despondently 


208 


EDITH AND JOHN 


moping manner, suddenly aroused himself to the impor- 
tunate remark, and looked disconsolate enough to arouse 
the sympathy of every one bent on reforming young blades; 
for he had been out the night before, and showed evidences 
of heavy dissipation. 

‘ ‘ Mother, you are always going on at me about Miss 
Jarney,” he retorted. ‘‘She’s been sick for the past five 
months or more; I have seen her but once, and then had no 
chance af seeing her alone.” 

“Yes, dear Jasper, you must brace up, now, and make 
of yourself more of a man, if you want to improve on your 
opportunity of winning such a prize,” said Jacob Cobb, 
with some disparaging sentiments in his tone. 

“Father, you too? Give me a chance, and when the op- 
portunity arrives, I shall propose,” returned Jasper. 

“You should not lose a minute’s time,” said the mother, 
with faith. “That man Monroe is out of the way now, and 
the other young man is too poor for her to take in place 
of you. See your sisters! Both already engaged, and soon 
to be married, yet both of them younger than you. You 
are too slow in pursuit of such happiness. Why, you should 
have had it settled long ago. Had I had my way about it, 
it would all have been over with, and you two fixed com- 
fortably in a house of your own, giving swell dinners, balls 
and parties, eh, Jasper? Edith is a fine girl, and I know she 
will be a good keeper of a house for you.” 

“She is going to the mountains soon, mother, I am in- 
formed,” said he, with design; “and I have half a notion 
to go up there for awhile to get away from my associates.” 

“That’s the thing! that’s the thing!” exclaimed the 
father, delighted at the prospect of getting the two to- 
gether at some summer place. “Go it, boy! go it, and push 
your suit.” 

“How nice it would be, Jasper,” said Susanna, with glee, 
“for you to get away from the city for a time.” 

“It would do you worlds of good, brother.” assented Mar- 
jorie, “to get away from the smoke awhile.” 

“You know, Jasper, we had planned to go to Paris for 
the summer and take you along; but we can spare your com- 
pany this time,” said the doting mother, “if it will give 
you the opportunity to make good.” 

This inane conversation anent Jasper’s future was 


EDITH AND JOHN 


209 


broken up by a messenger appearing at the door, with a very 
urgent note from Peter Dieman, requesting Jacob Cobb to 
come to his mansion without delay. Jacob responded with- 
out delay, and was soon sitting by the throne of that spec- 
tacular king, who still was wearing his mandarin robe, 
fez-like cap, and smoking another vile cigar. 

'‘Have you heard the latest, Jacob?” asked Peter, when 
Jacob was seated comfortably blowing up clouds of white 
vapor in corresponding rings with Peter’s smoke-stack. 

“No,” answered Jacob, with no uncommon concern. 

“Well, be prepared to hear the worst — Jim Dalis is 
back from Europe, and is going to squeal on us,” said Peter, 
with as little concern as Cobb at first appeared to show. 

“No!” exclaimed Jacob, with a cloud on his face that 
was sufficient almost to obscure the smoke from his cigar. 

“It is true,” said Peter, still unconcerned. “He was 
here this evening.” 

“What brought him back?” said Jacob. 

“Run out of funds, he said,” said Peter, blowing smoke, 
with much complacency. 

“Couldn’t you send him any more?” asked Jacob. 

“I sent for him,” said Peter, now looking at Jacob with 
an air of supercilious gravity. 

“God man! what do you mean? Do you mean to ruin 
us all?” shouted Jacob, excitedly. 

“Be calm, Jacob; be calm, and save your nerves for 
what is coming,” said Peter, gently. “He came by my re- 
quest, and is to make a confession before the grand jury — 
at my request, too. So if you want to save your old bacon, 
pull down your shaky house of graft and hit the trail for 
Europe; for you will be the first one caught in the net, 
Jacob.” 

“Oh, Lord man! What do you mean? This is awful! 
This is horrid! This is terrible! Exposed by my chief 
deputy like that! I’ll never forgive you, Peter! Never! 
And when it blows over, I shall return and cook you a dish 
that you won’t relish!” cried Jacob, now in a frenzy of ex- 
citement. 

“Why, I am safe from harm,” said Peter, calmly. 

“What did you do it for?” asked Jacob, in great anger. 

“To be plain to you, sir, I may state that that’s my 
business,” said Peter, cooly. 


210 


EDITH AND J O PI N 


“Then, we part enemies?” asked Jacob, with a daggerous 
look. 

“We do — if you want to; but, Jacob, you’d better take 
my humble advice, and go to Europe as quick as you could 
skin a cat. You know the whole thing will come out anyway 
w^hen that bank affair is known, which I am assured will be 
exploded soon, and then the whole shooting match will be 
busted.” 

“You had better call on heaven to help you, Peter, when 
I return — if I go,” said Jacob, rising, and leering down upon 
the king, who sat looking at the floor now, in quiet thought. 

“I am not afraid of you, or any one else, Jacob,” re- 
sponded Peter, looking up. “I am a domesticated man now, 
Jacob, and intend to enjoy the rest of my days right here, 
in this house, with my wife and ten children.” 

“You scamp!” hissed Jacob, snarling down upon him, 
like one dog snarls at another dog with the prize bone. 

“Take my advice, Jacob, and go home,” said Peter, look- 
ing sidewise at Jacob. “You’d better be there packing your 
grip than standing here calling me hard names. Europe is 
the safest place for you for the next ten years; so go. I can 
take care of myself.” 

“Things have come to a nice pass,” said Jacob, “when 
a man can’t enjoy the comforts of a home in this age with- 
out every upstart wanting to interfere in his business!” 

“It’s a nasty business that of yours,” said Peter, re- 
morselessly. “I’ve been tired of it for a long time, and 
wanted my chance to get out. The chance has come, and I 
am getting.” 

“You are an ingrate,” replied Jacob, wrathfully. “Being 
entrenched yourself with safety lines thrown out, so that no 
one can invade your private affairs, you care nothing for 
your friends who have divided with you for years. An 
ingrate ! An ingrate, I repeat, Peter ! I shall go, and may 
those vapid detectives who have been here for months trying 
to make a break in our lines, find you out, and help to punish 
you.” 

“Oh, that’s all right, Jacob,” said the suave Peter. “I 
know all about their work in this city ; but I am beyond their 
reach. So go, if you don’t want to be pinched within a 
week. Go, I say, to Europe, and maybe you can enjoy life 
there; and while you are doing it, think of me sometimes, 


EDITH AND JOHN 


211 


just for old freindship’s sake, and take an extra drink on 
the side for me — that’s all. I shall never forget you till my 
last breath is gone ; and I shall never forget the words you 
have just now said to me, and what impression they have 
left upon me. Go ! Jacob ; go ! that I may be done with 
you; that’s all.” Peter concluded this speech, without either 
smoking, rubbing or squinting. 

‘‘Good night,” said Jacob, leaving the king’s throne; 
and the two old cronies in legalized crime (for that is what 
graft is, nothing more), parted forever. 

“Good bye,” were the last words that Peter said to him; 
but Jacob did not hear them, so blind was he in his rage 
when he stepped out into the cool night air to take up his 
return to his home again to seek solace in the bosom of his 
family. 

Arriving home, Jacob put his family into a wild uproar 
Avhen he told them of the result of his visit to Peter Dieman. 

“Well, we were going to Europe anyway,” said Mrs. 
Cobb, as a consoling climax to her bewailment. “It is good 
that I informed our friends of this trip, so they will now 
be none the wiser. The wedding of the two young ladies 
can come off in September, as planned. I can return for 
that, and you can remain in Europe — ill, perhaps. And 
Jasper need not postpone his expedition into the mountains, 
you see.” 

“No, Jasper; you must not fail in that,” said Cobb, still 
unable to give up any of his schemes, so fascinating were 
they all to him yet, “as I will be compelled to remain for 
some length of time. If you fail, our fortunes may be some- 
what impaired as a result of all this trouble. So don’t fail, 
my boy.” 

“Oh, I’ll win; don’t despair, father, for me; I’ll win,” 
said Jasper, hopefully, with more interest than ever now in 
getting a wife with money. 

So to Europe Jacob Cobb and his family betook them- 
selves, leaving young Jasper at home, as agreed, to sport 
awhile with the vixenish little Cupid. Punctilious, as on 
every other such occasion of the going of such people, the 
Sunday newspapers, in their society columns, gave a glowing 
account of the departure of Mr. and Mrs. Cobb and their 
two daughters for Europe to spend the season (or several 
seasons it might have been) in Paris; and probably, if not 


212 


EDITH AND JOHN 


otherwise detained, to Baden-Baden, or to some other noted 
place, purportedly for the benefit of Mr. Cobb, who (poor 
man) had been in poor health for months past. 

Mercy on us! 


CHAPTER XXVH. 

ELI JEREY AT THE DIEMAN HOME. 

Dressed as on the great occasion when he visited Miss 
Jarney, Eli Jerey called at the home of Peter Dieman but 
a short ten minutes after Jacob Cobb had left in such a bad 
temper. Peter was in his jolliest frame of mind, and was still 
having jerks of felicitation over his fine stroke in besting 
Jacob Cobb, as he looked at it. when Eli floated into his 
presence like a fluted lamppost with its light extinguished. 
Eli sat down with his high hat on the top of his untutored 
head, as his only hat rack, when Peter took up the thread of 
the subject about where he and Jacob broke it in their slight 
misunderstanding. 

“When I told him to skip out, Eli, he flew the handle 
to beat all,” said Peter. “He threatened, if he ever re- 
turned, to cook a dish for me that I would not relish.” 

“Did he, though?” said Eli, raising his eyes to the level 
of Peter’s. “Now what kind of a dish could he cook for you, 
do you suppose?” 

“I suppose he refers to the street paving proposition,” 
responded Peter. 

“Which one? Where the wooden blocks were used?” 

“I suppose so.” 

“Well, Mr. Dieman, we might as well be honest now and 
say the truth sometimes; but that was a very bad piece of 
jobbery for all connected with it — even for the wood blocks, 
as you will see when a year has passed. ’ ’ 

“How?” 

“In it, the city got its worst job, the contractors worser 
jobbed, the grafters got jobbed good and plenty, and the wood 
blocks will be so jobbed that you will not be able to find 
any in another turn of the sun around the seasons.” 

“But how^ will he connect me with it?” 


EDITH AND JOHN 


213 


“He can’t, Peter; he can’t. I can swear that none of the 
money came to you by the way of our office. It all went 
through Cobb’s hands, and I have the receipts.” 

“Bully, boy! Bully for you! When I die, I will leave you 
the old shop and all it holds. You have a slick head, Eli. 
for such things. Who’d thought Jacob would have given 
his receipt?” 

“I forced it out of him. Told him: no receipt, no money.” 

“I knew you’d fix it all right when I left it all to you. 
Why, boy, you don’t blame me for having confidence in 
you? — But Jim Dalis?” 

“Oh, he’s to keep you out, as agreed, and is to go free 
on making his confession, and sticking to it at the trial. I 
tell you, he’ll fix a lot of them high-ups and others who’ve 
been in the game so long they can’t believe but what they’re 
honest and upright citizens.” 

“Bully! Then all danger for me is over?” asked Peter, 
chuckling in such a whimsical manner that Eli felt moved 
himself to get up and hammer him on the back for fear he 
was choking on his good humor. 

“Over,” returned Eli, decisively. 

“Good! Say Eli, I was only running a bluff on Cobb at 
first, when I said they couldn’t get me — I hear Monroe’s 
dead?” 

“ Deader ’n a fried oyster since he jumped into the Hudson.” 

“Poor Monroe, I always thought he would hang himself, 
if given enough rope.” 

“I am told Mr. Jarney has cleaned out the gang that 
helped Monroe in his dirty work — that’s what becomes of not 
being faithful to your job, like I’ve always been, Mr. 
Dieman,” moralized Eli. “Say, did I tell you about seeing 
May’s sister at the Jarneys?” 

“No; do tell me about it?” 

“Well, I saw her, that’s all; and spoke to her, that’s all 
— and my! she’s poorty; but I’ll stick to May.” 

“If I let you,” said Peter, squinting his eyes, with a 
funny little twinkle mixed in their movements. 

“Why, I came this very night to ask you, Mr. Dieman,” 
said Eli, as an opener to his subject. 

‘ ‘ Really, Eli ? Impossible ! ’ ’ 

“What’s impossible?” asked Eli, disheartened at the word 
“impossible.” 


214 


EDITH AND JOHN 


‘^That you came for that purpose,” said Peter with a smile. 

“I did, sir; indeed, I did, Mr. Dieman,” responded Eli, 
with much feeling. 

“Well?” said Peter, with a bearish look. 

“May I have her?” blurted out Eli, as he snapped a piece 
of imaginary lint from his angled knee with the index finger 
of his right hand. 

“Is she willin’, Eli?” asked Peter, changing his tone. 

“She is,” he responded, firmly. 

“You’ve made fine progress, my boy; but you’ll have to 
ask her moth — Kate — ” turning his head as he shouted her 
name for his voice to carry to where that lady sat in the par- 
lor, in the distance, surrounded by her squirming herd of 
youngsters — ‘ ‘ come here ! ’ ’ 

Kate came, looking like a queen — in her “rags” — still 
bearing some of her old sorrows in her lean face, now reduced 
to a pleasanter tone by the artful hand of plenty. 

“This young man wants May; can you spare her?” said 
Peter, not giving Eli a show at performing that part of his 
simple playing in courtship. “I’ll speak for him, Kate. 
He’s a mighty good boy, and May might do a thousand times 
worse.” 

Eli sat like a docile lamb before the altar of matrimonial 
sacrifice, humbly waiting his fate. Kate looked at him. He 
looked at Kate. Peter looked at both. All silent. Intense 
was Eli’s emotions — so tense that he was like a pine board 
in the hot sun ready to warp with the intensity of the heat 
that perforated the skin on his brow, sending forth scalding 
globes of perspiration. 

“I re — I gu — how did you tell me to say it?” she said, 
turning to Peter for intelligence on the right word. 

“May,” answered Peter, rubbing. 

“I may — no, that’s not it,” she said, appealing to him. 

“You may!” suggested Peter again. 

“You may, Mr. Jerey,” she said, finally hitting upon the 
proper phrase that would express her answer. 

She had no more than uttered the word, than Eli leaped 
to his feet, dropped his cane, and caught Mrs. Dieman in his 
sweeping arms, and hugged her powerfully. It could not be 
told whether he exercised a son’s indubitable right to kiss 
her, for the very momentous reason that his plug hat fell 
off at the critical moment when he appeared to be perform- 
ing that gracious act. But, in any event, his future mother- 


EDITH AND JOHN 


215 


in-law grunted from the grateful embracing that she under- 
went in the clasp of Eli. Finding his prized and fashionable 
hat had toppled off with imminent danger of being crushed 
by ruthless feet, he hastily released her, picked up his hat, put 
in on his head again, with such grandiloquent precipitation 
that he made things in the room look as if they were going 
up in a whirlwind. 

After catching his breath, he glanced inquiringly toward 
the parlor. There he saw May sitting in a very deep and 
richly decorated chair perusing a novel, which she, since her 
coming out, had been taught was a beautiful source of pas- 
time for young ladies of noble families. But Eli saw not 
the novel; neither did he see the pencil and tablet on May’s 
lap, with which she had been instructed to provide herself to 
jot down the things that impressed her most when reading; 
nor did he see with what beautiful material she was dressed. 
All that he saw was the plump little face of May, a face 
that had no equal, to him; and all that she saw was the 
tall Eli racing toward her, like a galloping giraffe, with 
love-lit eyes, with grinning teeth, with plug hat on his head. 
Then — 

“May! May! May!” 

The world turned upside-down, and he plunged head- 
long with May in his arms, into the laughing stars that 
flecked his heaven of delight. 

In the sudden onrush, May dropped her novel, dropped 
her pencil, dropped her note book; and Eli dropped his hat, 
which the youngest child momentarily toddled to, and took 
his seat within it as contentedly as if it had been placed 
there for his especial enjoyment. Eli minded notching, not 
even the cloud of children that rose around him like fairies 
in astonishment at a bogie man come among them. 

But the whirlwind that Eli started soon abated, and its 
wreck and ruin was more noticeable upon May than any one 
else; for, in his awkwardness, he had loosened her hair, till 
it fell down around her waist, and mussed her pink messaline 
till it needed ironing afresh, and caused a burning place on 
the one cheek which he pressed so closely to the rough twill 
of his coat collar, that she seemed to be aflame with indig- 
nation. She was not indignant, however. Her little pout 
was only a sign of shame-faced happiness brought about by 
the astonishing behavior of Eli in the presence of her family; 


216 


EDITH AND JOHN 


which she declared was shameful familiarity. 

“Why, May,’’ said Eli, in support of his actions, “your 
mother says yes, and your daddy says yes, and I say yes; 
now, what do you say — I don’t care who knows!” 

“I don’t care what they say, you had no business to do 
it,” she answered, looking black at him, as she was brushing 
out some of the wrinkle marks in her dress. 

“Is it yes, or no. May? Tell me quick, before I go hang 
myself!” he cried in his anguish. 

“I haven’t said no, Eli,” replied May, as she attempted 
to put up her hair, and blushing from ear to ear. 

“Is it yes, May?” said Eli, with eyes brightening. “I 
want to know.” 

May glanced up pensively, with a hairpin between her 
lips cutting a smile in two. 

“Yes,” she answered, as the pin fell to the floor, and 
her hair straggled down again. 

“I am happy. May,” he replied; “now will you excuse me 
for my impetuosity?” 

May was gathering up her hair again when Eli said this. 
She turned to him with a smothered laugh, and remarked: 
“You are all right, Eli; I am happy.” 

Whereat, both being perfectly agreed as to their feelings 
and opinions, Eli looked about for his hat, preparatory to 
taking his departure. 

“Well, Lord bless us! Look here. May!” he exclaimed, 
standing over the youngster, sitting in his hat. 

Then, bursting into a loud guffaw, he stooped down, 
grasped the hat by the side rims, and lifted it up, baby and 
all, and ventured forth to the throne room. As he lifted 
the burden up before him, the baby laid hold of his string 
necktie with one hand and his collar with the other, as a 
support to his precarious position. In which position Eli, 
hat, and baby proceeded, Eli singing a foolish ditty, till 
they arrived at Peter’s seat, by the side of whom sat Mrs. 
Dieman. 

Eli stood before them a moment that they might see the 
load and the oddity of the situation of baby. They laughed; 
Eli laughed; baby laughed. He swung the hat this way and 
that, up and down, and bounced him a little. Eli blowed a 
tune of coo-coo at him, then whistled, and sang snatches of 
songs, of all of which baby seemed highly appreciative, judging 


EDITH AND JOHN 


217 


from his looks. Then — the bottom fell out of the hat, and 
through it, feet foremost, shot the baby like a stone, and fell 
in a squalling bundle on the floor at Eli’s feet. 

At the outcry that followed, all the other children came 
rushing in and circled around the party; and laughed and 
clapped their hands in great glee at the mishap to the baby 
and the hat. Eli picked up the crying child, and stroked his 
hair, and cooed to him. The child placed his little arms 
around Eli’s neck, and sobbed till his grief was gone. And 
this was the little child that touched his father’s hard face 
with his little hands, saying da-da; but perhaps he will never 
remember that day. 

Procuring a new hat from Peter, one that fit him illy, 
Eli tore himself away from this man’s dominions, encircled 
by Billy Barton’s family, to return some other day for a 
beautifully appointed wedding with his beautiful May. 

The world may laugh and sneer at such as Eli Jerey; but. 
after all, in such as he may be found the man who will make 
marriage a heaven to a poor man’s daughter, raised as she 
was in poverty, and lifted by chance to a higher plane of 
living. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

IT IS DECIDED TO SEND EDITH TO THE MOUNTAINS. 

It was a morning in May. Happy birds sang in the tree 
tops, and flowers speckled the green grass of the park with 
their variegated bloom. The sun, the first for days, threw his 
lustrous light over the smoke begrimed hills; the air, which 
a brisk wind from the north cleared, was bracing in its 
freshness, and all creation was breaking into renewed vitality 
at the touch of advancing spring. 

Edith, on the arm of Star, walked down a bypath bordered 
by nodding Easter lilies, late in blooming, and watched the 
bounding butterflies and plunging bees and hopping birds, 
and heard the call of nature in all its thrilling voices. 

Life is beautiful and life is sweet, but what is life when 
the soul is craving for that which cannot be had? The 
wind may sing to you in its softest notes, the birds may send 


218 


EDITH AND JOHN 


forth their enchanting rhapsodies, the flowers may emit their 
most becalming fragrance, but what are they to a spirit un- 
answered in its callings? The sun may shine ever so bril- 
liantly, the moon may beam in mellowing brightness, the stars 
may twinkle in their deepest mysteries, but what are they 
when love is crying out; with no responsive cry? Deep, deep, 
unanswerable is the mystery. Edith asked the flowers, the 
birds, the bees ; she felt the soothing wind, heard the sweeten- 
ing notes, and caught the lulling scents, but they all gave 
back the answer — mystery! mystery! 

They walked the paths together, Edith and Star, arm in 
arm; they sat in the cooling nooks, and whisperingly con- 
versed; they let the wind play with their locks, like playful 
fairies; they saw, they heard, they sang, they laughed. But 
still, to Edith, there was that mystery ever hanging over 
her — a blot to everything that should entrance her — a dim, 
dark, cold, benumbing longing that paints frightful pictures 
from a palpitating heart that gets no respons to its secret 
throbs. Weary, worn out, lagging, spiritless, because of her 
long illness and worry over late happenings among her 
father’s unfaithful employes, Edith got no comfort now out 
of her home, or its surroundings. Pale still, and nervous, 
her spirits ever flagged, even under the promptings of her 
dear friend Star, who had been resorting to all her charms 
and graces to give pleasure to the sick young lady that 
she might be diverted from her moody spells. Edith was 
bright at times, and laughed and chatted like a child under 
Star’s cheerful influence; but more often she was melancholy, 
and seemed never to be reaching that time when the shadow 
of her malady would fall off. Music had no charms for her, 
nor books, nor young company. Life was lifeless to her. 
The mansion was a dreary castle. Her days were spent in 
wishing for night, and nights in wishing for morning. All 
her mother’s endearments, all her father’s love, all of Star’s 
sweet companionship, were alike to her — unconsoling. The 
mother was in despair, the father grief stricken, but Star, of 
all of them, had hope. 

“Edith,” said Star, this day, while standing by the pond 
watching the leaping fountain and playful golden flsh, and 
noting how quiet Edith was, “I wrote to Mr. Winthrope 
yesterday.” 

“Oh, Star,” said Edith, with a deprecating frown, “I 


EDITH AND JOHN 


219 


hope you have not gone and forgotten yourself to such an 
extent that you have written first?” 

“Forgot myself, Edith? Why, bless your heart, no; he 
wrote me first,” replied Star, with a merry laugh. 

“Wrote first?” asked Edith, in surprise. 

“Yes; he just did write first; and I told him that he was 
real mean in not writing sooner,” said Star. 

“What did he say?” asked Edith, gazing vacantly into 
the water. 

“About all he said was asking about your health. It is 
mean in him, I repeat, that he said no more. He said, 
though, that when your father was in New York, he told him 
you were fast improving.” 

“What was your answer. Star?” 

“Oh, goodness! I wrote six pages, about everything, 
almost, and informed him that — ’ ’ 

“Now, Star; you didn’t write anything that would be 
indiscreet, did you?” 

“Why, deary, no, of course not; I only told him that 
you — ” 

“Star, don’t tell me that you have violated my con- 
fidence?” 

“I will not say what I wrote, Edith, if your are not more 
attentive. I said that — ” 

“Star! Star!” said Edith, with tears glistening in her 
eyes; “do not tell me that you have broken your pledge; 
if you do, I shall never — no — go on; what did you tell 
him?” 

“That you — that you are getting better very slowly, and 
that your father will take you to the mountains for the 
summer. I told him everything else, Edith, but that which 
you forbade me telling.” 

“You are very prudent. Star. Will he write again, do 
you suppose?” 

“I wound up my letter with a P. S. : ‘Don’t forget to 
write ! ’ ” 

“You bad girl! I suppose he will be coming to see you 
sometime?” 

“Wish he would,” said Star, hopefully, with a teasing 
expression in her face. 

“Really, Star?” 

“Yes; I do — I’d turn him over to you,” she responded, 
with a laugh. 


220 


EDITH AND JOHN 


“You are a tease, now! If he comes, it must be of his 
own free will. ’ ’ 

“You are not looking well, Edith; we had better go in 
the house,” said Star, seeing the pallor of weakness coming 
over her face. 

“Assist me in,” responded Edith, willingly submitting to 
Star’s admonition. As they were nearing the steps leading 
up to the great piazza, Edith remarked that she would go to 
the mountains next day, if able, with her father, and, of 
course. Star was to be her companion. 

“I was never out of the city,” replied Star, “and I am 
wondering what mountains look like. Can you tell me?” 

“Oh, they are only big hills.” 

“Do people live there?” 

“Yes. Many people live in them. He came from up 
there somewhere.” 

“Prom the mountains?” 

“Yes; from the mountains.” 

“Then, we may see his home,” said Star, suggestively. 

“We may; but the mountains are very large. Star — miles 
long and miles wide, with dense woods everywhere and with 
but few roads through them, and homes of farmers scattered 
about.” 

“Oo-oo!” exclaimed Star. “We would not want to go far 
into them; we might get lost. Do people live there?” 

“Yes. There are bears there, Star, and deer and owls; 
and many birds live in the gloomy depths of the forests.” 

“My!” exclaimed Star, alarmed. “I would not want to 
go out after night. Where will we live when we go up 
there?” 

“In a big hotel on top of the mountains.” 

“How fine! I can hardly wait till I see it all!” 

“Our trunks should be packed today. Star, for a two 
months’ stay. Father says I will be benefitted when I get 
out of the smoke of this city.” 

“Is your father going with us?” 

“Oh, yes; but for a short stay only. He will visit us 
once a week thereafter.” 

“Won’t that be fine, Edith; and we will get to see the 
mountaineers, and maybe his home,” said Star, with all that 
fullness of anticipation that comes to one emancipated from 
a round of daily worry and abject commonplaceness, as they 


EDITH AND JOHN 


221 


reached the top of the flight of steps, up which Star had 
been assisting Edith. 

Edith looked up into the face of Star with a smile, 
showing neither hope nor doubt, but full of that wearying 
pain that leaves a sore upon the heart. 

“It will be very pleasant, no doubt, Star,’’ returned 
Edith; “but I am so weak that I am afraid I cannot enjoy 
anything. How kind and good you are to me,” and Edith 
glanced up with tears; “you take so much pains in comfort- 
ing me, and wishing for my welfare. I would be lost, dear 
Star, if it were not for you — lost — utterly lost,” and the 
poor nerve-wrecked, distracted little Edith fell into Star’s 
arms through utter exhaustion. 

Edith was carried to her room, and restoratives were ad- 
ministered. The contemplated journey was therefore postponed 
for a week to await her recuperation. The weeks passed, 
and Edith was still no better. Nobody saw her condition. 
Nobody quite understood what it was. They were all blind. 

Lying on her bed one day, when the sun was shining, 
and the fragrance of the flowers and the songs of the birds 
came in the open window as a caressing wave of sympathy, 
Edith was roused from her unpleasant meditations by her 
father, who came in to see her. Sitting down by her bed, 
the father took up one hand of his child and petted it, with 
his eyes full of the tears of his abiding grief. 

“Edith, dear,” he said, with his voice full of emotion, 
“do you think you can now withstand the trip to the moun- 
tains?” 

“I think I will be just as well off here, papa,” she 
answered, faintly and indifferently. 

“If you are able, we will go at once, dear,” said the 
father, noticing how low her spirits were, and wishing to 
do anything that would tend to revive them. “I believe a 
change of air and scenes will do you good. Do you think 
you can make the trip?” 

‘ ‘ I will try, papa — any place ; any place — it makes no 
difference, papa. I am so weak all the time, papa, that I 
am — ” 

“Don’t; don’t, Edith, my dear child,” he said, with 
anguish in his kind heart, and parental remorse on his con- 
science. “You w^ould not have been in this state, pet, had 
you not become so wrought up over that Monroe affair, I 


222 


EDITH AND JOHN 


know; and I am to blame for being so blind, so blind — so — 

The father laid his head in his hands on the bed, and 
wept ; and as he wept, Edith laid her hand upon his head, 
and smoothed down his ruffled hair. ‘‘Dear, papa,” she 
said, “dear papa, don’t cry for me; I will get better.” 

“Edith,” said her father, raising his head, “I have sent 
for Mr. Winthrope to return to my office to become my chief 
assistant. I expect him here today, Edith. Shall I have 
him out for dinner?” 

Edith gave a nervous start, and for the first time in days 
her little heart beat faster, and a color mounted to her 
pallid cheeks. 

“Do as you like, papa; I shall be glad to see him, if 
he comes to my room,” answered Edith. “When did you 
say you would take me to the mountains?” 

“Tomorrow, if you are well enough.” 

“I will go, papa.” 

That evening John came, and ate dinner with the family. 
Instinctively he felt the great veil of sorrow, of fear, of 
dread, of worry, of sadness that brooded over the household. 
Strong, healthy, handsome, mannerly, John seemed to have 
brought a new ray of sunshine with him that was absent 
there before. His pleasing conversation, his cheerful smile, 
his hearty laugh, his quick wit in repartee flooded every 
department of the mansion — even into the cook’s chamber, 
where was sung that evening love-songs of youth long sup- 
pressed by the weighty forebodings of the coming of the 
White Horse and his rider. 

“Mr. Winthrope,” said the bouncing Mrs, Jarney, now 
less demonstrative of her spirits by her long siege of fret- 
ting, “it seems so natural to have you here. I told Mr. 
Jarney just the other day that I wished you could come out 
occasionally to see us, for you were always such pleasant 
company. ’ ’ 

“I don’t know whether to take that as a compliment 
or a pretty piece of flattery, Mrs. Jarney,” responded John. 
“I am sure, however you mean it, I shall not be negligent 
in expressing my thanks to you.” 

“Compliment, Mr. Winthrope; compliment,” returned 
Mrs. Jarney, with a sweet deference towards accenting the 
word compliment. “I never indulge in flattery with people 
whom I like — leastwise, I do not care to with you.” 

“I feel grateful to you, Mrs. Jarney, and to Mr. Jarney 


EDITH AND JOHN 


223 


also, for your kindnesses in my behalf, and friendly consider- 
ation of my welfare. The only manner in which I can ex- 
press myself, is that you have my sincerest thanks for your 
good deeds and kind words,” was the way he thanked them. 

Mrs. Jarney never lost an opportunity to say a good 
word for John to her friends, or to himself. Sometimes he 
was touched to a modest degree of bashfulness in her pres- 
ence by her assertive way of praising him. On this evening 
he was more severely tested than ever before by reason of 
her motherly familiarity. When he arrived, she was so over- 
joyed at seeing him, that she was almost in the act of 
throwing her arms around his neck, and weeping, perhaps, 
as the mother did on the return of her prodigal son. She, 
no doubt, would have committed this informal act of glad- 
ness, had it not been that to have accomplished it, she 
would had to have stood on a chair, John being so much 
the taller. But as it was, she took both his hands in hers 
in welcoming him, and shook them with such energy that 
John was disconcerted for a brief time. Mr. Jarney was 
just as profuse in his greeting, but more restrainful in his 
actions than his wife. Why all this joyfulness, this glad- 
someness, this unusual cordiality, on their part, John never 
stopped to consider in any other form of reason than duty 
and gratitude. 

“You will want to see Edith before you go?” said Star, 
after the diners had risen from the table, and as she was 
walking with him to the drawing room. 

“Of course,” replied John, “if she is in condition to 
see a stranger. I should not want to leave without seeing 
her.” 

“She knows you are here, and is expecting you. Will 
you go up now?” asked Star. 

“If it is her pleasure, and your wish, I shall go with 
you,” replied John. 

Together Star and John repaired to Edith’s room. Star 
entering first and John following. Edith lay in her night 
clothes, with the covers drawn up well around her throat, 
her two white hands reposing on the white spread. She 

had expected him for the last two hours, and began to be 

weary over the long waiting. So when the door opened 

and Star entered, she turned her head in time to catch him 

coming in the door; then as quickly turned it away, in an 
attempt to stop the fiuttering of her heart. When he ap- 


224 


EDITH AND JOHN 


proaehed her bedside, she extended to him a hand, which 
he took, as he sat down on a chair by her side. 

“Mr. Winthrope,” she said, very low, “I am glad to 
see you.’' 

John saw that her mind was with her now, and he 
should act accordingly. The appalling look of illness was 
in her face yet, the appealing smile of hope was in her eyes. 
He was overcome again. Oh, for that hour of health for 
her, when the raptures of a true soul answers to the respon- 
sive note ! 

“You look so much better. Miss' Jarney,” said John, the 
moment of his recovery over her glad greeting, “than when 
I saw you last.” 

“Do I; really, Mr. Winthrope?” she asked, with her eyes 
illuminating. 

“Surely, you are better; I can hope so anyway.” 

“I was better for some time after you left in March; 
but lately I have been gradually growing worse, till now I 
am in bed again, as you see.” 

“I plainly see,” he said jocularly; “but, if you would 
get out of here and into the country somewhere, and get the 
fresh air and open doors, I am sure you would improve 
rapidly ? ’ ’ 

“Do you think so?” she asked, withdrawing her hand 
and folding them both together, as she turned on her side, 
facing him. 

“Why, nothing would be better,” he answered. 

“I am going away tomorrow,” she said decisively. 

“Tomorrow! So soon, and you in bed yet?” he exclaimed. 

“My papa insists that I shall have a change of environ- 
ment at once.” 

“Can you go? Where will they take you?” 

“To the mountains — up somewhere where you live.” 

“That should make a very enjoyable journey for you, 
and you should be benefitted,” he said, cheerfully. “I am 
going home in June, and I shall hope to find you improved 
in health by that time. May I anticipate the pleasure of 
calling to inquire about your health. Miss Jarney?” 

“The pleasure will be mine as well as yours, Mr. Win- 
thrope.” 

“Then I may call some day?” 

“You may, if — ” and Edith offered up the daintiest 


EDITH AND JOHN 


225 


little smile to meet his glowing looks — ‘'if you will take me 
and Star to see your mountain home.” 

“Oh, I shall be glad to do that. I have got the nicest 
little sister and the finest big brother you ever saw, and my 
mother will cook you such a rare dinner that I know you 
will recover soon after eating of it.” 

“My! I can scarcely wait the time, Mr. Winthrope. I can 
already taste that dinner. When will you be there?” 

“The first week in June.” 

“How delightful! I know I shall recover my health, once 
I get there. How impatient I am already! Star, is every- 
thing packed?” 

“Almost, Edith,” answered Star. 

“We will not want many fine clothes. Star; I am going 
out to rough it for awhile. Is it rough up there, Mr. Win- 
thrope?” 

“Very — in some places,” he answered. 

“And you will be up in June?” she asked, now feeling 
enthusiastic. 

“That is my plan, now,” he replied, uncertainly. 

“You will not let anything interfere, for I want to see 
your sister, and I know Star will want to see your brother,” 
she said, with a weak smile toward Star, who blushed very 
red at the idea of meeting John’s brother. 

Edith was by this time worked up to a high state of 
excitement over the prospect of the new life she was to lead. 
John, discerning the bad effect it had on her, and fearing 
furthr complications should he remain, rose to depart. She 
raised her hand to bid him good bye. He took it, touched 
his lips to her fingers, looked down upon her, and said, 
“Good bye.” 

“Good bye,” she said, “till we meet in the mountains. 
Good bye!” 

And John was gone. 

The same wild emotions w^hirled through his soul, as in 
those other times, when he was so fraught with the uncer- 
tainty of her demeanor during her night of illusions, as he 
left the mansion on the hill. The same musical good bye, 
he heard echoing from the buzz of the automobile that 
wheeled him to the city. The same he heard following 
him, pursuing him, pervading him and everything — in the 
crowds of the streets, under the lights, in the hotel corridor, 


226 


EDITH AND JOHN 


in the lobby, in his room; and, finally, the last he heard 
singing him to peaceful sleep. But he heard it now played 
on a different harp from that which lulled him into slee^) 
many times before. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

EDITH RECOVERS AND YOUNG COBB PAYS HIS RESPECTS. 

It was another morning in May. The sun was climbing 
over the wooded hills to the east ; the wind was pulsing 
through the leafing trees; the wild flowers were blooming 
by the roadside and in the dusky dells ; the butterfly, bee 
and bird were in their delights of mating, and all creation 
was swinging in the swing of renewed vitality at the touch 
of speeding spring. 

Edith, with the ever confiding Star by her side, sat 
wrapped in a summer cloak on the eastern end of the sweep- 
ing reach of the veranda of the Summit House, which sits, 
with much pretentious rambling, where the old National way 
winds up from the east and twists up from the west in its 
macadamed smoothness in crossing the mountain divide. 

Life is beautiful and life is sweet ; but what is life with- 
out that which the pure heart craves? The wind may sing 
to you in dulcing notes; the birds may send forth their most 
ravishing rhapsodies; the flowers may spray you with their 
cologne of incense; but what are they to the spirit in which 
the call is answered? The sun may shine, the moon may 
beam, the stars may twinkle; but what are they compared 
to the responsive cry of the soul’s affinity. Deep, deep, 
unanswerable is the mystery. 

Edith asked the sun, the moon, the stars; the wind, the 
trees, the birds, the flowers, and everything; she felt the 
soothing wind, heard the singing birds, caught the lulling 
scents; but they all gave back the answer: mystery! mystery! 
It is all a mystery, that bright, beaming, radiating longing 
that paints the beautiful pictures from a palping heart that 
has received an echo from its secret throbs. 

As the sun climbed up his way, the wind lowered its 
beating pulses, and a shimmer of warmth spread over the 


EDITH AND JOHN 


227 


hills and woods and fields and deep valleys. Life came up 
out of the east; and out of the depths of the hotel. Farmers 
would pass in their rattling rigs; woodmen roll by in their 
lumbering wagons; autos puff up the hills with their loads 
of pleasure seekers, stop awhile, unload, and spin on again. 
Late risers sauntered out on the veranda — ladies and gentle- 
men of leisure, and children — in idling costumes, and tramp 
off time, as a bracer for the morning feast. Noises came out 
of the interior, like a modified din from chambers of revelry. 
Bells, on straying sheep, or browsing cattle, tinkled in the 
distance. Axes rang somewhere in the silent forests; sounds 
of many kind broke out from everywhere ; and the world 
was full astir. 

It was wonderful to Edith, this new life, with its healing 
balm of fresh air, bright sun, green vegetation, pleasant 
sounds — all undimmed, untarnished, uncontaminated by 
smoke and fog and grime of her native city. It was wonder- 
ful, to Edith, to see the bright faces of the mountain people, 
coming and going on their daily trips to Uniontown; it was 
wonderful to see how light-hearted, how gay, how spirited 
were those of the leisure class who spent their nights at this 
health-giving resort, and their days in the towns below. 

It was all wonderful, indeed. It was wonderful how fast 
she recovered her strength; how quickly the fires of health 
returned to her cheeks; how speedily her drooping spirits 
mounted to that pinnacle w^here the flagging soul ceases to 
repine. But was it all the bracing air, the burning sun, the 
happy birds, the blooming flowers, that effected her cure, as 
if by the magic touch of that enchantress, Isis? Mystery! 

Among those who arrived that morning from the nether 
lands was Jasper Cobb. He came in due formality of travel- 
ing as was his wont. He had his valet, who had his hat 
boxes and suit cases and trunks. He had his cane, his pipe 
and his et cetera. He was surprised, of course, but delighted, 
naturally, to see Edith and Star sitting on the wide veranda, 
as he jauntily floated up to them after disposing of his valet 
and other personal things. 

“Well, well! if this isn’t a surprise to shock your grand- 
mother and throw your granddaddy into hysterics!” he ex- 
claimed, coming up to them, making a bow that almost threw 
them into the titters, over its profound ridiculousness. “Why, 
when did you come here?” he asked, as if he had not known 
beforehand. 


228 


EDITH AND JOHN 


“We have been here for two weeks,” answered Edith, 
respectfully, although she abhorred him. 

“You certainly look better. Miss Jarney; you, too. Miss 
Barton,” he said, with a protracted smile of the wheedling 
variety. “This rarefied atmosphere, away from the Pitts- 
burgh smoke, appears to agree with you two, charmingly.” 

‘ ‘ It does very well ; very well, ’ ’ said Edith, disinclined 
to be friendly. 

“I hope we may see each other often. Miss Jarney — and 
Miss Barton,” he continued, insinuatingly. “If you two 
have not dined I should deem it a favor to have your com- 
pany.” 

“Thank you; we have already dined,” responded Edith. 

“If you will excuse me, then, I will perform that necessary 
duty myself,” he returned. After a sweeping bow and an- 
other wheedling smile that he might as well have kept to 
himself, he left them. 

“I do hope we will not be bored to death by that young 
man,” said Edith. 

“What will we do, Edith?” asked Star. “If we remain 
here and he remains here, it will be rather awkward to get 
rid of him.” 

“Oh, we will show him what respect we can without 
losing our own self-respect,” said Edith. “I wonder what 
brought him here?” 

“Pursuing you, I suppose, Edith.” 

“He will have his trouble for naught. Star,” replied Edith, 
with a toss of her head. 

“I should think he would know enough to comprehend a 
few hints,” said Star. 

“Some people don’t, you know. Star,” said Edith, rising 
and drawing the mantle closer about her shoulders. “Let us 
go for a walk down the mountain road, so we wdll not be 
bothered with him, at least for awhile.” 

But Jasper was not to be so easily shook by such a fur- 
tive departure on the part of Edith and Star; for that young 
man, immediately after finishing his breakfast, and ascertain- 
ing from the keeper of the grounds the direction in which 
they had gone, lighted his pipe, gloved his hands, and, armed 
with his cane, went after them at a pace that would do well 
for a Weston in his hikes. He found them after a short 
walk down the hill aways. sitting in the shade of a spreading 


EDITH AND JOHN 


229 


chestnut tree. The young ladies saw him coming, but they 
could not retreat, nor flee in any direction, so had to make 
the most of him, for a time. He, being a very brisk and bold 
young man, with a dandified swagger in his bearing and a 
distorted vainness about his personality, approached Edith 
and Star with such a rush of enthusiasm that they had cause 
to be exasperated at his manners. 

“Hah, playing hide and seek with each other, are you?” 
he said, with an overbearing sweetness and an impertinent 
geniality. 

“Not at all; just resting after our walk down the hill 
preparatory for the returning climb,” answered Edith, with 
an effort to be a little disdainful; but if he noticed this in 
her, it was more than anybody else could see, for it was 
quite contrary to her nature to be disrespectful, except when 
brought to extremities, no matter how hard she tried, even 
toward the worst of fists. “Finding it getting warm,” she 
continued, “we sat down here to rest before returning.” 

“Aren’t you going any farther? Which way?” he asked. 

“Up the hill,” she answered his implied questions. 

“Then I may accompany you on the return?” he asked. 

Edith glanced at Star, Star at Edith, for an answer; but 
neither answered for a moment. Then Edith, seeing the 
predicament they would be in of either saying yes, or offering 
a rebuke, said: “We came out for a quiet walk together, 
Mr. Cobb, and thought we would find rest down here, and 
be away from the people up there — ” pointing toward the 
hotel; “but if you are going up the hill, we will see who 
can go the faster.” 

“Banter me for a race, do you?” he said, ingratiatingly. 

“Oh, not necessarily,” returned Edith, with a laugh. 

“All right, then a walk it shall be,” he said airily, not 
a whit disposed toward being piqued at the young ladies’ 
desire to have done with him. 

Edith and Star started off together at a lively step on 
the upgrade tramp, Jasper keeping by their side, with even 
step, in a palavering mood. His talk was simply airy noth- 
ings, commonplace enough in its most brilliant stages, and 
foolish enough for the most twadling and appreciative loiterer 
of swelldom. He had a sort of rude wit about him that might 
be very interesting and enjoyable to a crowed of sports, but 
to Edith and Star he was a driveling idiot. 


230 


EDITH AND JOHN 


The walk progressed at such a rate that very soon Edith, 
in her desire to keep in advance of him, began to lag, and 
her breath was coming too fast and furious for her benefit ; 
but Star, who yet showed no signs of fatigue, had taken Edith 
by the arm to urge her along the best she could. Edith’s 
face was excessively red from the great exertion, and sweat 
stood out on her forehead like morning dew on the crimson 
clover bloom. 

“Whew!” exclaimed Edith, at last, puffing and blowing, 
and heaving her breast in harmony with her rapid respira- 
tion, and saying between breaths, “that is — a little — too 
— much. ’ ’ 

“You are blowing like a porpoise,” said Jasper, as he 
stopped and was contemplating her from head to foot, using 
his cane for a rest, on which he leaned. “Shall I fetch an 
auto for you?” 

“No; I can make it up the hill; but I must take it slower,” 
she answered, holding her hand over her heart. 

“If you will permit me, I will assist you,” he said. 

“Oh, never mind me, I will get there, eventually.” 

“Come on, then,” he said, with coarsness, as he laid hold 
of her arm to urge her forward; and thus between the two 
they got her up the hill. 

Simultaneously with their rounding the hill from the east, 
there rounded the same hill from the west a double team ot* 
farm horses hitched to a cumbersome wagon. On a flat board 
seat, across the bed in front, sat a young man about twenty 
years of age, and a lass of about sixteen blooming summers 
in her face. The horses moved at a slow and lazy pace, after 
having pulled a heavy load up the winding stretch of three 
mile grade, and stopped at the apex for a “blow” before 
relieving the pressure on their collars for the downward pull. 
At the stopping of the team, Edith and Star and Jasper came 
abreast in their walking, and also stopped for a “blow” be- 
fore entering the hotel. 

This meeting seemed to have been the result of prear- 
rangement, so natural did the precise moment of stopping 
appear. The young man in the wagon was a pronounced 
blonde; but the many seasons that he had spent in the moun- 
tains had bronzed his cheeks to a coppery red, and made him 
a very healthy and rugged youth, withal. He had a regularity 
of features that could not be gainsayed for their Grecian 


EDITH AND JOHN 


231 


similarity. His light blue eyes were sharp, steady, penetrat- 
iug. With a slouch hat on his head, flapping down on both 
sides, and tending to pokeness at the crown,* a check shirt 
opened in front and turned aside, revealing a deep manly 
breast, and turned up sleeves exposing muscular arms from 
the elbows to a set of rough but well shaped hands — he sat 
like a monument of Strength and Health and Robust Beauty, 
resting his horses, and indifferent to the astonished gaze 
of the city bred people standing by. The young lady by his 
side, in the flower of young maidenhood, was a counterpart 
of the young man; and they were, without a doubt, from the 
same family tree. Her pink-lined sun-bonnet of gingham, 
accentuated by the warming sun, caused her face to glow, 
as if on fire, and her red calico dress could not have added 
more demureness to her looks had it been made of the richest 
silk. 

Thus, as they came by chance together, at such a time 
and at such a place, and under such pleasant circumstances, 
the three a-foot and the two a-riding cast contradictory 
glances at each other. Edith thought she saw in the young 
mountaineer an embossed replica of some one else; and also 
in the face of the young girl she was sure there was the 
heavenly-traced picture of another face. Star, with her head 
thrown back, in contemplative grandeur, looked at them with 
a stare of uncertain recognition. The young man in the 
wagon was about to speak, believing them to be friendly 
disposed vacationists, and would not mind a turn of conversa- 
tion with him, being as he was of the out of the way places 
of their humdrum existence; but before he could do so, Edith 
suddenly plucked Star by the arm, and with her ran toward 
the hotel entrance, not stopping till she had gained the wide 
veranda, panting again, and all excited. Reaching the van- 
tage of that viewpoint, and while standing behind a shielding 
porch column, she peeped from behind it, like one frightened. 
She beheld the mountaineer, with the little girl, disappear 
below the hill, and heard the screeching of the rubber blocks 
of his wagon, and saw the touting Jasper ambling, with a 
whistling note to keep him step, down the pikeway toward 
the hotel. 

''Star, that was John’s brother!” exclaimed Edith, after 
he had disappeared over the hill, "and that little girl was 
his sister.” 

Resuming her composure over the excitment the incident 


232 


EDITH AND JOHN 


caused, she sat down in one of the lounging chairs, witli 
Star by her looking serious enough herself. 

“I believe so, Edith; but why didn’t we stop long enough 
to talk with them?” said Star, apparently disappointed. 

“Oh, I wanted to stop to speak — but that would not do, 
dear Star — would not do at all; but I will have a talk with 
them when he comes here next week, never mind,” cried 
Edith, with much joyousness in the ring of her voice. “Isn’t 
she such a pretty creature — just like one of those little fairy 
mountain girls you see sometimes in romantic plays in the 
theaters, and I know she is more romantic.” 

“What dp you think of him, Edith — the man — her 
brother — if that is whom he is?” asked Star, blushing for 
the first time Edith ever saw that intelligible sign in her 
face. 

“If he is not Mr. Winthrope’s brother, he is his living 
stature in bronze,” replied Edith; “and now. Star, tell me 
your opinion?” 

“I can’t say that I have an opinion, Edith; I am really 
dumb with amazement. He is such a big fellow — more like 
a mill-worker, or such — oh, my, Edith; don’t ask me for — ” 

“Well, now, I like that way of speaking about Mr. Win- 
thrope’s brother. Maybe it was not him at all, and we have 
had our little scare for nothing. Oh, goodness! here comes 
Mr. Cobb again! dear me!” and Edith subsided. 

Pursuing the tenor of his prevailing thoughts, Jasper 
Cobb sought Edith and found her on the eastern end of the 
veranda. After saluting the two young ladies again quite 
prodigiously, he asked Edith for a private interview at once. 
Star, hearing the request, rose and left them, as if she had 
an errand in her room, before Edith had time to ask her to 
remain. Star, however, was waiting for such an opportunity 
to absent herself, knowing what young Cobb’s mission was. 
Having been informed by Edith what her answer would be, 
she went away satisfied that she would return to find that 
young man laboring under a severe jolt to his mercenary 
soul. 

Now, when alone, Mr. Cobb drew up a seat and sat near 
Edith. 

“Miss Jarney, we have always been friends — our 
families ? ’ ’ 

“Yes.” 


EDITH AND JOHN 


233 


“And we have been friends for years, you and I?” 

“Yes.” 

“Would you consider a proposition from me to make that 
friendship permanent and lasting?” 

“Yes.” 

His heart bounded — a little. 

“Well, Miss Jarney — may I call you Edith? — I came 
here to ask you to marry me?” 

“You?” she said, turning on him. 

“Yes; me,” he answered, dejectedly, for he caught the 
tone of her voice in no uncertain meaning. 

“No,” said Edith, firmly, looking at him, with a sort of 
a commiscerated smile for his imbecility. “If you want to 
be my friend, Mr. Cobb, all right, you may consider me as 
such ; but, as to marrying you, never can I make up my mind 
to that end.” 

“Dear Miss Jarney, you don’t know the blow that you 
have struck me — it almost topples me over,” he insisted, 
and Edith came near laughing in his face, so ludicrous was 
the expression that he had now assumed. “I have always 
thought you had encouraged me — ” 

“Oh, never was I guilty of such an offense, Mr. Cobb — 
never. You are laboring under a misconception, or a delusion, 
or something else. Encourage you, Mr. Cobb? How ridicu- 
lous ! ’ ’ 

“Then, you refuse?” he asked, coldly and fiercely. 

“I most certainly have my senses with me,” she retorted, 
with a laugh. 

“Ah, then. I’ll go my old way. I thought I might settle 
down some day and be a man,” he whispered. 

“Be a man first, Mr. Cobb, and settle down afterwards, 
is my advice to you,” she responded. 

“You are cruel, Miss Jarney — cruel — as cruel as all the 
other women of the rich, who make monkeys of we men folk,” 
he said, despairingly. 

“You must understand, Mr. Cobb, that I am not one ‘of 
all the other women’ of the rich, of whom you speak so 
slightingly,” she replied, still keeping a good temper. 

“Well, I guess not. Miss Jarney,” he said, with a sneer, 
looking away from her. “I see. Miss Jarney — I am not 
blind — that you have set your cap for that young man in 
your father’s office.” 


234 


EDITH AND JOHN 


“You are disrespectful, Mr. Cobb; leave me at once,” she 
replied, with some scorn for the first time exhibiting itself 
in her bearing. She arose and left him sitting there alone, 
with his pipe as his only comforting companion. After re- 
covering from this jolt, as Star predicted, he gathered up his 
belongings, together with his valet, and vanished. 

Imagine such a union of hearts ! There are plenty of 
them founded upon the rock of riches. Yes; imagine it! 
See this young man Cobb, and know his worth ! His face was 
like that of a well bred bull terrier, with a pipe between its 
lips, and a red cap upon its head. He had a pair of dull- 
gray pants on his hind legs, and they were turned up, with 
a pair of yellow shoes sticking out below the turn-ups. Around 
the middle of his body was a yellow belt fastened by a silver 
buckle, and above the belt was a silken white shirt, with 
turn-down collar, and around the collar was a red necktie, 
in which stuck a scarabee pin. And he called himself a man 
worthy of Edith. 

He had been to Harvard, she to Vassar. She had learned 
to write a grammatical sentence and spell in the good old 
Websterian way. She could sing and play on the piano ; and 
converse on the economic questions of the day with the 
perspicacity of a Stowe. She read the poets down through 
the catalogue of famous men and women, and the novelists 
of the class of Dickens and Hawthorne. She knew of the 
painters, the musicians, the thelogians, and could talk intelli- 
gently on them all. 

Him? He had learned a lot of things. He could flip the 
Harvard stroke with the ease of a Cook. He could make a 
touchdown without breaking sixteen ribs of an adversary. 
He could twirl the pigskin like an artist of the green cloth. 
He could take the long jump, or the long hike, with the grace 
of a giraffe. He could dance like a terpsichorian dame. He 
could drink whiskey, champagne and beer, smoke cigaretts. 
play cards. He could talk with the profundity of an ass 
and write with the imbecility of an ox. Yes, indeed, he had 
all the refinements of a college education — the kind con- 
fined to the male gender. The only virtue he had was his 
prospective inheritance from his father — money. 

And he wanted Edith to marry him! Pooh! 


EDITH AND JOHN 


235 


CHAPTER XXX. 

FOR JOHN IS COMING HOME. 

There is a little frame house sitting, in the shade of 
maples and oaks, by the roadside to the south aways from 
Chalk Hill, It is a leaning building, to some extent, in many 
ways, by reason of its age. A crooked little chimney heaves 
up on the exterior of one end, by reason of its insecure 
foundation. Shingles curl up, as if in dotage, by reason of 
the sun. Weather boarding warp and twist and turn, grayed 
by the wash of years, by reason of their antiquity. Windows 
peep out, with little panes, and rattle in the wind, by reason 
of their frailty. Wasps and bees, in season, build their mud 
nests beneath curling shingle and behind twisting board ; 
bats fly out, at eventide, from unseen holes in the gables ; and 
swallows chatter and circle round the chimney top in the 
twilight of the summer days. An ancient porch, with oaken 
floor, hangs against the front wall, and the woodbine and 
morning glory creep and twine and bloom around its slanting 
columns. A gate swings out at the end of the path leading 
from the door to the highway. Flowers — the rose, the mari- 
gold, the bouncingbetty, the wild pink, the primrose, all as 
old-fashioned as the people who dwell here — border the 
pathway. A paled patch of ground stands to one side, as 
sacred as the Garden of Gethsemane. In the rear a gnarled 
and aged orchard has but recently shed its snowy burden of 
bloom, with lingering scents still in the air; and beyond 
and around, fence-enclosed fields are greening with growing 
crops, and still beyond are dark forests and open fields and 
noisy ravines. 

Evening is coming on. The sun has gone down over the 
mountain top. Shadows have disappeared into the gray of 
fading light. Odors of night are ascending from the cooling 
earth. The robins are rendering the last stanza of their 
solemn doxology to the dying day. The whippoorwills send 
forth their melancholy praises to the approaching darkness 
through the wooded chancel of their shadowy choir loft. And 
frogs swell their throats in grave bass tones to the melody 
of country life at this time of departing day. 

A gray-haired farmer, in rough garb, sits on the porch. 


236 


EDITH AND JOHN 


smoking liis pipe, and by his side sits his patient, loving 
wife. On the top step of the porch sits their young daughter, 
reading her fate, perhaps, in the evening stars, the while 
glancing up the road, and listening for the click of horses’ 
feet on the stones. But no sound is heard before night comes 
on. The mother rises, goes in, and lights the oil lamp, and 
sets it by a window for the expected visitor to see. For 
John is coming home. 

‘‘They are late in getting here,” says the mother, as she 
descends from the porch, and goes down the path to the gate. 
She looks up the road through the shadows ; then returns, 
and sits down by her daughter on the steps. 

The father relights his pipe, clanks down to the gate, in 
his heavy boots, looks up the road through its shadows; 
then returns. “They are late,” he says, and resumes his 
seat. 

“I wonder what is keeping them,” says the daughter, with 
an expectant hush in her sweet voice, as she rises, and goes 
down to the gate. She looks up the road through its shadows ; 
then returns, and sits down. 

Listen ! 

John is coming home. 

They hear the clank of horses’ hoofs, the rattling wheels, 
the rhythm of a lively trot ; then indistinct voices far in the 
distance. 

John is coming home. The son who went away the year 
before — the brother — is coming home. The father’s boots 
clank on the porch as he impatiently walks back and forth. 
The mother rises, and shades her eyes, and peers up the road- 
way through the shadows. The sister rises, with a dancing 
heart, and flutters down to the gate, like an angle in the 
darkness. 

For John is coming home. Home! His only place of 
sweet rememberance. 

It is an age, it seems, before the team draws up and John 
leaps out to catch his sister in his arms. 

“Come into the light, Anne, that I may see your face, for 
I know you are growing so handsome,” said John, putting 
his arm around his sister, and went laughing with her toward 
the house. Could he have seen those blushes, in the darkness, 
because of his brotherly praising of her ! 

“How is mother?’’ was his greeting to his mother, as he 


EDITH AND JOHN 


237 


kissed her at the foot of the steps. And, with her clinging 
to him on one side and Anne on the other, he ascended the 
steps to the porch. 

“Where is father?’’ asked John, not seeing him in the 
darkness, standing jnst ahead of them. “Oh, here he is!” 
John exclaimed, as he released himself from his mother and 
sister, and grasped his father’s rough hand. “Come into the 
light and let me see you all,” said John, after the formalities 
of greeting had been performed, to the satisfaction of all 
around. 

The light brought forth a revelation for them all, as light 
does for everything. The family now saw in John a new 
being in outward appearance, but still the same loving son 
and brother. John now saw his father and mother a little 
older, it appeared, perhaps, from anxiety over his absence, 
or it may have been their strenuous toil was showing plainer 
on them. He also saw in his sister, a simple country maiden 
in the rusticity of young beauty. 

“Anne, will you let me kiss you again?” asked John, as 
he stood in admiration over her by the lamp, holding her 
hand, after his mother and father had gone to complete the 
supper that had been almost ready for hours waiting for him. 

Anne tip-toed up to her brother, at his request, and put 
up her sweet lips to his 

“And how has my little sister been all these months?” 
he asked, patting her on the cheek. 

“Very well, John; I hope you have been a good boy,” 
she answered. 

“Sister wouldn’t expect anything else of me, would she?” 
he asked, kissing her again. 

“Oh, no, indeed, John,” she replied, with wide eyes. 

“And have you been good?” he asked. 

“Very, John,” she responded. 

“No beaus yet, I hope?” he asked, in his teasing way he 
always had with her. 

“Why, no, John!” and she blushed, not that she had a 
beau, but through maiden coyness. “You are the only one 
I’ve got, John.” 

Supper was then announced. James, who brought John 
from town, came in after putting away the horses. And they 
all sat down in happy reunion once more. For John was 
home. 


238 


EDITH AND JOHN 


“Wliat was the cause of your delay, John?” asked Michael 
Winthrope, the father. 

‘‘Oh, by the way, father, I must tell you about it,” 
answered John, laughing heartily, and looking slyly at James, 
who was now dressed in his best clothes, and presented as 
good an appearance as John himself. “I have two lady 
friends, who — ’ ’ 

“Why, John!” exclaimed the mother, looking over her 
glasses. 

“Wait, mother; will you hear my story?” said John, 
turning a happy smile upon his mother. “As I was going 
to say, I have two lady friends stopping at the Summit House. 
One is the daughter of my employer; the other her cousin. 
They saw us, as we were coming by, and, of course, we saw 
them. Knowing them as I do, I could not come on without 
the formality of greeting them. I introduced James to them, 
mother ; and what do you think ? — ” 

“Now, John, you mustn’t be too severe on me,” said 
James, modestly, “for I don’t pretend to your polish since 
you went away.” 

“Never mind, James; you are a capital fellow, after all 
— but, mother, James and sister here” — turning to Anne — 
‘ ‘ saw them the other day, and they are — they think he and 
sister cannot be beaten as — roving mountaineers — no, they 
didn’t say that sister” — turning to his sister again — “They 
did say they would come out to see us, if you will drive in 
for them.” 

“Law, me, John; we have no place here to entertain such 
grand people. What do you mean?” asked the mother, hold- 
ing up her spoon, and shaking it with a remonstrative motion 
as emphasis to her thoughts. 

“Wait, mother; wait, and hear me out, before remonstrat- 
ing any further,” said John, cheerfully. “They wouldn’t 
accept my invitation; but they want sister to drive our old 
rig in for them, and extend the invitation to spend the day 
with us. They thought it would be so romantic to go on a 
lark with little sister” — turning to her again with such a 
fond look that Anne beamed under his countenance. “Will 
you go, sister?” he asked. 

“Shall I, mother?” asked Anne. 

“If John says so. What do you say, James?” asked the 
mother. 


EDITH AND JOHN 


239 


‘‘That is up to John,” responded James. 

“And father?” asked the mother. 

“Whatever John says about it,” replied the father. 

“Now, everything is up to you, sister,” said John. “Are 
you going?” 

“Why, of course, brother,” she answered. “When?” 

“Tomorrow,” replied John. 

So it was settled. That night, as John lay down to sleep 
in his old bed, so pure and white, in a little room up stairs, 
he heard again, above the screeching insects, the booming 
frogs, the wailing owls, that old sweet song that carried him 
into the slumberous land of nowhere — ‘ ‘ Good bye ! Good 
bye!” — as on so many nights before. 

In the night, when the house was still, a gray-haired 
man, in night clothes and carrying a lighted lamp, softly 
stole into John’s room. John lay with his face upturned, his 
eyes closed, and his lips parted in a sleeping smile. The 
father stood over him a moment, bent down and touched his 
lips to his son’s brow. “He is a good boy yet,” he said to 
himself, and softly stole away. 

Anne was singing, as she went about her work, when John 
awoke in the morning ; and life was astir on every hand. The 
pigs were squealing in their sty; the calves were bawling 
in their pens; ducks were squawking in their pond; chickens 
were cackling in the barn yard, and the sun was shining 
everywhere. John dressed himself and descended the narrow 
stairway, with tousled head and open shirt front. The 
mother was milking the cows, James was in the field, and 
the father was in the barn. Anne was preparing breakfast. 

“Now, I may see you in the sunlight, sister,” said John, 
as he sauntered into the old-fashioned kitchen, and stood 
before her, with folded arms, and half yawning yet from sleep, 
as she was spreading the cloth upon the table. “I didn’t 
know I had such a dear little sister,” he said, as he put his 
arm about her and kissed her on the lips. 

“You are such a fine brother, John, that I am almost in 
love with you,” she returned, as she lovingly left an imprint 
of a kiss on his cheek; then leaving him to pursue her work. 

“Whose love would I want more than yours, Anne?” he 
asked, in his laughing manner. 

“Oh, I don’t know, John; maybe you have a girl better 
than me to love you,” she replied. 


240 


EDITH AND JOHN 


“I shall never place any one above my dear little sister/’ 
he said thoughtfully; “but — for no one can be your equal 
— except — one. ’ ’ 

“Is it one of those, John, whom I am going after this 
morning?” asked Anne, rattling the skillet on the stove. 
“One of those whom brother James and I met on the road 
a short time ago?” 

“One of those, Anne — the rich man’s only child — but I 
am too poor for her,” he answered, regretfully. 

“Is she as good as you, brother — and me?” asked Anne, 
distributing the plates around the table. She was innocent 
yet of the ways of the world ; but was feeling the first calling 
of young maidenhood. 

“She is very good, Anne; very good; but no better than 
you,” he returned, with the same uncertain cloud of per- 
plexity that overcast him so often before, still pervading him 
like a wave of blinding light that comes to obscure the vision, 
at times, by reason of its intensity of purpose. 

“She is very fine looking, John — both of them, John. 
Which one is it you mean?” 

“The smaller of the two.” 

“Oh, the one with the bluest eyes, who took fright at 
us and ran.” 

“That is just like Edith, to run.” 

“I know I could love her, John.” 

“You are anticipating, sister.” 

“Why, who couldn’t love you, John?” asked Anne, look- 
ing up at him, with some doubts as to what he meant. 

“That is a sister’s opinion, child,” said John. 

“A sister’s opinion of her brother is better than any one 
else’s. Maybe she does love you, John. Did you ever ask 
her?” 

“Maybe she does,” said John, going toward the door and 
looking out over the garden fence and into the fields, and 
dreamily into the distance ; ‘ ‘ but she is too rich to accept me, 
sister,” he said, turning about. “How soon will breakfast 
be ready?” 

“As soon as you wash your face,” she answered. 

John, heeding this hint, went to a basin on a bench in the 
yard, which forcibly recalled the old days. How refreshing 
it was to him to soap and souse his face into the cold water! 
And how inconveniently unpleasant it was, after such soaping 


EDITH AND JOHN 


241 


and sousing, to rush with blinded eyes, and water trickling 
down the neck beneath the shirt collar, to the kitchen and 
fumble, like a blind man, for the towel. But it was home to 
John. 

The rattling wheels and squeaking springs of the old rig 
could be heard far up the road after Anne, dressed in a clean 
white frock and wearing a pink sun-bonnet, had left the front 
gate on her mission, guiding the old farm horses on their sure 
and steady gait. 

Oh, John, John! If there is anything worth while, it is 
Edith’s love, the love that never dies. Blind man, as you 
are, and too considerate of high state, and too proud of your 
own, you are the only one to make her sweet soul happy. Be- 
stir yourself, John, and come out of the fog of self-conscious- 
ness that has kept you in obscurity so long as to your final 
intentions. High state and low state are all the same to the 
Cupid that has engaged you so relentlessly. High caste and 
low caste do not count for him. Come and see the right, and 
see the light. She is only mortal, you are only mortal. Money 
is nothing to her ; money is nothing to you. Love is all to her ; 
love is all to you. It is the man and woman, after all, that 
makes happiness supreme. Come ! 

John has donned the garb of a mountaineer, which gives 
him a wild romantic bearing. It is the garb of his former 
self. This is the one in which Edith, secretly, wished to see 
him in, sometimes ; and she shall have her wish fulfilled. 
He wears a gray slouch hat; a check shirt, opened in the 
front and turned up at the sleeves ; a pair of blue overalls, 
with bed-ticken suspenders, and high boots. Typical! He 
is in his elements now, for his vacation period. He wishes 
Edith, when she comes, to see him as he once was. It is not 
vanity; it is pride of home. He wishes her to see life as it 
really is in a well directed loving home, where toil is the 
simple reward of living. He wishes her to see what life is 
to these people of the hills, how they thrive, and how they 
bear their burdens. He wishes her to see all this in contrast 
to her own life, and how love and duty can go on perpetually 
in a humble home, as well as in a mansion. 

Work must not cease on the farm, at this season, except 
in case of sickness or death; visitors must make themselves 
at home during the work hours, and be entertained only at 
meal time, or go their way. The wheels of industry must go 


242 


EDITH AND JOHN 


on there as noisily, ever grinding, as the wheels of industry, 
ever grinding, in the city. But there are rare occasions, even 
in both instances, when surcease is had for a spell to meet the 
call of recreation. And this was one of those rare occasions 
on the farm. For Edith and Star were coming, and a half 
holiday was cut out for their especial pleasure. James would 
cease his ploughing the corn at noon. The father would knock 
off duty at eleven to help mother get up the feast, and then 
smoke his pipe thereafter, perhaps, as his company. Thus it 
was planned. 

After Anne had gone, John roamed about the place, specu- 
lating on the tender association everything had for him. He 
went through the house from garret to cellar, and beheld, 
with warming heart, how dear the old things were, and how 
different they were to the things in the mansion on the hill. 
Here was everything still that he knew in his boyhood days, 
and he saw with a thrill of regret, but not remorse, for it was 
still his home any time he wished to abide therein. And no 
one could gainsay him that privilege. 

But how would Edith look upon all this, and not be struck 
by the simple evidence of his lowly origin? Ah, the com- 
parison is too great, he thought, as he went into the garden, 
where he first learned the secrets of plant life ; and then into 
the orchard, where he first saw the wonderfulness of the fruit- 
ing time; and then into the old barn, where was taught him 
the nature of domesticated animals; and then into the fields, 
where he had ploughed and sowed and reaped. How different 
from his life for the past year! How different! 

Edith could see nothing of interest in such bucolic sur- 
roundings, he thought. She would come, and see, and go, 
and want to forget him. It is well, he thought, that she sees 
it now, and of her own coming. 


EDITH AND JOHN 


243 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

IN CONCLUSION. 

The rattling wheels and squeaking springs could be heard 
far up the road. Anne was returning with her precious load. 
The horses trotted down the hill, and came up with a rattle 
and a bang, and a sudden stop, at the gate, with Edith at the 
lines, and Anne by her side, and Star in the rear seat alone 
holding on tightly lest she should be bumped out. 

“WasnT that great!’’ exclaimed Edith. “I told you I 
could drive. This is your home?” to Anne. 

“This is our home,” replied Anne, as she began to climb 
over the wheel in getting out. 

“Isn’t it a beautiful place, Star!” said Edith. “Just 
look at the roses blooming! and all those flowers around the 
porch! Anne you have such a romantic little home! Well, if 
here isn’t our mountaineer, for a surety!” she exclaimed 
seeing John coming down the walk. “How do you do, Mr. 
AVinthrope? I see you at last in your true character! How 
will I ever get over this wheel?” 

‘ ‘ If you will be real good, I will help you out — with 
your permission,” said John, as he approached, and offered 
up both hands for her to fall into, as she liked. “Sister, I 
will put away the horses,” he said to Anne, as he saw she was 
holding the head of one of the horses to await the unloading. 
“Remember, this is not an auto,” he reminded Edith, as she 
was cautiously putting out one little foot on the rim of the 
wheel before her. 

“I would not have had so much fun if it had been an 
auto,” returned Edith, looking down into his upturned face, 
and laughing; “and you have such a fine sister,” as she 
turned her head toward Anne. 

“Now, jump,” said John, as he caught her beneath the 
arms, she resting her hands on his shoulders in the momen- 
tary act before the plunge. “Down you come — there! — 
not so difficult after all,” he said, as she bounced on her feet 
on the ground. “Now, Miss Barton, we will see with what 
grace you can perform the feat.” 

“You will have to be careful; I am so awkward,” said 
Star, preparing to go through the same acrobatic act. 


244 


EDITH AND JOHN 


“Jump, Star!” said Edith, seeing her hesitate. 

“Here I go, then!” she said, laughing, as she took the 
downward dive. 

“Oh, my! Miss Barton!” exclaimed John, as she tumbled 
into his arms, as a big rag doll might. “Are you hurt?” he 
asked, as he released her from the necessary embracing he had 
to perform to prevent her from falling to the ground. 

“Not hurt, but a little frightened,” she answered, flushed 
from the incident, and brushing out her skirts. “I am all 
right.” 

“Now, you ladies go into the house with my sister while 
I put the horses away. Here, Anne, you take the ladies, and 
I will take the horses,” he said, leaving his guests, and taking 
up Anne’s position in charge of the team. 

“May I call you Anne?” asked Edith, as Anne came up to 
her. 

“Yes, Miss Jarney, if you wish; we all use our first names 
up here,” responded Anne, opening the gate. 

“You may call me Edith, if you like, and this other lady 
will be our guiding Star,” said Edith, walking with her arm 
around Anne’s shoulders up the walk, her face aflush, her 
eyes beaming, and seeing everything about, talking con- 
tinually. 

Star was not as talkative ; but she was just as seeing as 
Edith was. She, too, saw something in that home, more than 
its simplicity, to attract her admiration. AYas it the fragrant 
flowers and hopping birds and cool freshness that she saw? 
or was it the peace of contentment, indefinably overloading 
everything? or was it the radical difference in the two homes, 
ideal though in both, and irresistable in their contradictory 
elements, that caused her spirits to rise above the normal 
point of enthusiasm? Or was it something else? Star did not 
know. 

Arriving at the door, arm in arm now, Anne passed 
straight through the opening, holding on to Edith, and Star 
followed with considerable w'^onderment at what she might 
encounter. 

“Take o^ your hats, ladies,” said Anne, withdrawing 
her arm from Edith’s and standing off, with folded hands, 
looking at her, with gladness all over her face. 

“No, you must say Edith and Star,” said Edith, seeing 
how humbly courteous Anne tried to be. 


EDITH AND JOHN 


245 


“If you will have it that way; Edith and Star, take off 
your hats and gloves. Now, I’ve said it, and I didn’t mean 
to be so rude,” said Anne, abashed. 

“Anne, I will not love you if you do not call me Edith,” 
said Edith, scolding pleasantly, pulling off her gloves. “I do 
not like too much formality. I have had so much of that that 
it does my heart good to get out where I can be free; and 
you will let me be free here, Anne, won’t you?” 

“Oh, yes, Edith,” answered Anne; “and Star, too; you 
may be as free as you please, Edith, for we are such common 
folk, so long as you don’t carry off my brother, John.” She 
said this without the least knowledge of its true meaning; 
not mentioning her brother James, because she did not think 
of such things in his connection. 

Edith blushed a deep crimson, as well as Star, at this 
extraordinary remark on this the most extraordinary day that 
ever came into their virtuous lives. Anne had a faint inkling 
of what these blushes meant, for she continued: “Now, Miss 
Edith, since you want to be free with me, I will be just as 
free with you, and tell you that my brother 1 — 1 — likes 
you.” 

Edith was not prepared for all this, and she had to turn 
her head in the most confused state of feelings she ever fell 
into, all for wanting to be tender and kind and loving toward 
this mountain girl, who was not yet clearly or fully instructed 
in the propriety of fine speech. Edith made no reply. She 
stood a moment, after facing Anne, cogitating on what an 
appropriate reply should be. 

“Anne,” she said directly, with a bright smile, “will you 
let me kiss you ? ’ ’ 

Edith held out her hands for Anne to come to her. Anne 
responded to the ineffable sweetness of Edith to make amends 
for her offense, which she realized she had committed against 
the fine lady opening her heart to her. 

“I love you, Anne,” said Edith, holding the dear little 
girl to her breast; “I love you; will you be my friend?” 

“Why, of course, Edith,” replied Anne; then she broke 
away, and was gone, leaving Edith and Star alone. 

They removed their hats and placed them on a table in 
a comer; and then sat down on a lounge that graced the 
wall under a window looking out on the porch, both in be- 
wildered confusion and agitation. 


246 


EDITH AND JOHN 


“What do you thiuk of his sister, Star?” asked Edith. 

“She is a fine young child; no more than sixteen, per- 
haps,” responded Star, ‘‘and so lively that I wish I could 
be here with her all the time.” 

“I wonder if they will let us take her with us to the 
city, Star, to be our companion?” said Edith. ‘'We would 
educate her, and teach her music and everything.” 

The kitchen door opened, and Anne came in with her 
mother, who wore a gingham apron as the badge of her 
position in the household. Anne advanced with her mother 
and presented her, with much dignity, as she conceived it, 
to Edith and Star. 

“This is my mother, Edith and Star,” said Anne, as the 
two young ladies arose and advanced to the middle of the 
room. 

Edith presented her small white hand and took the coarse 
hand of Mrs. Winthrope. “I am so glad to know you, Mrs. 
Winthrope,” said Edith, as she kissed the aging woman, whose 
age was more from toil than years. Star having performed 
the same act of greeting, including the osculatory part thereof, 
Mrs. Winthrope held up her hands in an astonished attitude, 
and said: “Well, well; I declare; and you two are John’s 
friends, are you? I hope you are well.” 

“We are well; thank you,” they both repeated. 

“Just make yourselves at home, ladies, with what we have 
here to entertain you, while I finish the dinner. Be seated 
by the window where it is cool, for I know you must be warm 
after the long drive in the sun.” 

“Thank you, Mrs. Winthrope,” they answered; and were 
seated. 

Then the mother and daughter disappeared again; and 
Anne returned, after a little, with her father, who was in the 
clothes of a ploughman. Mr. Winthrope was a tall man, a 
little stooped, with chin wiskers, and gray blue eyes; and, 
while rough looking, was not boorish. Anne escorted him 
to the young ladies, who arose at his approach. He greeted 
them so warmly and effusively that, for some time thereafter, 
they felt the grip of his vise-like hand on theirs. 

“Just make yourselves at home, as you like,” he said. 
“We are farmers, you know, and if you find any pleasure 
here it is yours. We will be through our w^ork by noon, then 
mother and me will find time to talk, if you care to be 
bothered with us at all.” Then he left them. 


EDITH AND JOHN 


247 


“Are they not very good people,” said Edith to Star, after 
the father had gone out with Anne. 

“I like them very much,” opined Star; ‘‘they are so 
pleasant. ’ ’ 

John came in shortly, and sat down on a split-bottom chair 
in the middle of the room. 

“I hope you ladies are enjoying yourselves,” he said, 
toying with his hat he held in his hands. 

“I could not enjoy myself any more if it were my own 
home,” answered Edith. “Why, you have such a delightful 
home, Mr. Winthrope, and such nice parents, and such a sweet 
little sister, with whom I have already fallen in love. I am 
regretting that I have not known them longer.” 

“That’s a beautiful encomium. Miss Jarney, on my native 
heath; but you know that you and your father and mother 
have been saying so many nice things about me that I am un- 
certain whether you mean it or not.” John said this while 
glancing at the floor, picturing intangible things in the woof 
and warp of the old rag carpet. 

“I mean every word of it, Mr. Winthrope,” replied Edith, 
also picturing similar intangible things in the old rag carpet 
as easily as if she had pictured them out of the delicate 
flowers in the velvet rug in her boudoir. 

Star sat gazing out the window, looking at some intangible 
shapes that made up the green hills beyond. Their conversa- 
tion thereafter was not of the progressive kind, nor was it 
brilliant. Both became secretively reserved, and time was 
hanging monstrously on their hands. John was dreaming. 
Edith was dreaming. Both were uncertain as to what to say 
or how to act, so discomposed were they. But James came in 
soon to break the spell. He was such a strapping fine fellow, 
fine in texture, and as good as he was fine. 

“I knew very well who you were the day we met you on 
the road,” said Edith, shaking his hand. 

“Had I known all this then. I should have bundled you 
into my wagon and brought you right home,” he replied, 
with considerable liveliness in his speech. “But not knowing 
you, of course, I could do nothing else but drive on. How- 
ever, the pleasure of meeting you now, here, is certainly be- 
yond by mean ability to express.” 

“We might have come,” said Edith, with a ringing laugh. 
“Would it not have been odd, and so romantic, just to have 
come right along with jmu?” 


248 


EDITH AND JOHN 


“I am sure 1 would have enjoyed it,” he said; ‘‘and by 
this time I would have had you converted into farm hands.” 

“And wearing calico dresses,” said Edith. 

“And brogan shoes,” said Star, remembering how she used 
to wear such articles of clothing. 

“Yes; it is certain one can’t work here and wear silks,” 
responded James. Then looking down at himself, he was 
reminded that he was still in his rough garb. “If you ladies 
will excuse me, I will make myself more presentable for ap- 
pearance at dinner.” 

He then left them; and when he returned, wearing his 
best Sunday suit, all brushed and fitting him very well, he 
was equally as stylish looking as his brother John in his best. 

When dinner was announced (dinner is at the noon hour 
with the mountain people), John lead Edith and James lead 
Star to the bounteously laden dining table set in the kitchen. 
It might have been noticed by Edith, had she not been other- 
Avise engaged, that Star was more aflush than ever before, 
just at this period of her proud behavior. James talked to 
her very entertainingly during the progress of the long meal, 
and she was very cordial toward him. She laughed and talked 
with great glee, being amused at his ready wit and simple 
manner. But John and Edith were distressingly quiet, for 
some reason, listening mostly to the conversation of the others. 
Little Anne, at times, cast side glances at Edith and John, 
that might have been suggestive of their meaning. 

“Would you ladies like to try your hand at fishing?” 
asked James, who was warming up for any kind of sport that 
might be introduced for the entertainment of their guests. 

“Oh, delighted!” cried Edith. “I never fished in my 
life.” 

“Nor I,” said Star; “will you teach me how, Mr. Win- 
thrope?” (meaning James.) 

“I thought we old people were to entertain you this after- 
noon,” said the father. 

“We will return in time for that, father,” James said, 
rising. “John, I’ll get the bait; you get the tackle, and we 
will teach these young ladies how to fish.” 

“Be careful,” admonished the mother; “don’t fall into 
the stream.” 

“Anne, are you not going?” asked Edith, as she rose with 
the others. 


EDITH AND JOHN 


249 


I must remain here and help mother ; and will await your 
return,” said Anne, as she came around to Edith and put 
her arm around her. 

“You are a dutiful child, Anne,” said Edith, kissing 
Anne thereat. 

Edith and Star were both dressed in gray serge skirts, 
white silk waists and sailor hats. While John and James 
got ready the ladies prepared themselves for the event of 
their lives. They were in waiting on the porch when John 
and James came up, with plenty of bait and tackle in their 
hands. So off they went immediately: John and Edith to- 
gether, and James and Star, the father and mother and Anne 
standing on the porch watching their going. 

They struck the mountain stream a mile below the house, 
and the two ladies fell to the sport with the spirited joy 
of youth. The pair became separated after awhile, as. ail 
such sportsmen and women often do. One pair went up the 
stream, and one went down, after the elusive fish. 

John and Edith came to a pool, after wandering through 
the bypaths of the forest, far below the other two. Around 
the pool the trees hung low, and the shades were heavy, and 
the water was dark and deep. By the pool they sat down on 
a log, and cast their lines to await the fisherman’s luck. 

“Isn’t this delightful,” said Edith, holding her pole with 
inexperienced hands over the water. 

“Fish won’t bite, if we talk too loud,” said John, criti- 
cally, but pleasantly, as he sat below her on the log, slanting 
into the stream. 

She became quiet ; he became quiet. The water trickled 
over the miniature falls at the head of the pool in such an 
isolated tone of ripling that it made wild sweet music for 
Edith. The trees above them sighed in a low crescendo, and 
the birds were singing everywhere. The sun rays glinted 
through the boughs of the trees, and danced upon the water, 
making a fretted work of moving lights and shadows. Water 
riders ran back and forth, as if playing with the sunlight let 
into their darksome place of habitation, and fish jumped up 
now and then, as if to taunt the patient anglers. And Edith 
and John sat quietly — waiting, waiting. 

Then a fish came along, and caught the bait of Edith’s 
hook; and went tearing away in its struggle for liberty. So 
sudden was the unlooked for happening that Edith lost her 


250 


EDITH AND JOHN 


balance, by reason of the gyrations of the fish, which she 
pluckily attempted to land, and plunged into the water. It 
came so sudden that John, who was at that moment meditat- 
ing on the catch he would make, and on how he would boast 
over the rest of them when he got home, did not notice Edith’s 
danger till it was too late. Without a moment’s reflection, 
however, he dropped his pole and leaped into the pool after 
her. Edith came up with a scared look, beating the water 
with her hands, as he went down by her side. He seized her 
around the waist, and swam for the shore, and when they 
reached the shore, she laughed, being reminded of another 
watery occasion; but still permitting him to hold her in his 
arms. 

‘‘I am a pretty sight now,” she said, still remaining in 
his arms on the sloping bank, up which he was assisting her. 

“It seems we have an affinity for water, Edith,” he said, 
reaching the top of the slope, still holding her in his arms. 
“May I call you Edith, now?” he said, clasping her wet form 
to his. 

She laid her dripping head upon his breast, one arm stole 
around his neck, and she looked up into his face. “Yes,” she 
answered. And he kissed her for the first time on those sweet 
lips that had so often uttered his name before ; but now they 
said, “John.” And still he held her in his arms. 

“Edith, will you be my wife, some day?” he asked, look- 
ing with the fervor of an impassioned youth into her dear 
blue eyes, and pushing back the wet hair from her white 
temples. 

“Why, yes; dear John, I love you, as I always have since 
the first time I met you,” she answered, with such an appeal- 
ing tone for that old responsive note in him that he pressed 
her closer to his bosom. And the longing in her soul was 
recompensed in that moment of her eternal bliss. 

“You know me, Edith; you know my people now; you 
know what I am. Are you satisfied?” he asked, still harbor- 
ing that same old uncertain doubt that always perplexed him 
SO; and still holding her in his arms. 

“I know you to be a noble young man, dear John. I know 
your people now, and I love them. I am satisfied,” she 
whispered. “You are all that I care for, John — all. I love 
you, I love you,” and she kissed him. 

“I am satisfied, dear Edith. It was not an hallucination, 
after all, was it dear?” he answered. 


EDITH AND JOHN 


251 


Thus, plighting their troth, they went hand in hand up 
the shady wood path as happy as two young children over 
their mishap. 

Life is beautiful, and life is sweet; but what would life 
be to those young people without the love between them? 

Coming to the path where they left James and Star, on 
parting, they found them sitting there, waiting. When Star 
saw them coming, she instinctively comprehended, and knew 
that the crisis was over between Edith and John. Star was 
happy herself over a secret of her own. And together they 
returned home. 

John proudly, on arriving in the old-fashioned sitting 
room, announced to his parents and sister his intended bride, 
and told them they could take her now, in her bedraggled 
condition, for their daughter and sister. 

“Now, will you go with me, Anne, to the city?” asked 
Edith, after she had been costumed in some of Anne^s cloth- 
ing that fit her narrowly. “I will educate you, and have you 
for my own dear sister,” hugging Anne to her breast. 

“Some day, Edith; some day,” answered Anne, uncertain 
in her mind. “When will you come after me?” 

“When I am your real sister, Anne,” replied Edith, strok- 
ing Anne’s golden hair, and then she looked up at Anne’s 
mother, who could not fully realize what it meant for her 
future life. “You will let her go, Mrs. Winthrope?” 

“I may some day,” answered the good old mother. 

“I wouldn’t want to leave papa and mamma yet, Edith,” 
said Anne, with a happy smile. 

“You shall return to see them often; so shall I,” said 
Edith. 

“I will go some time, Edith, after you are my sister,” 
answered the coy Anne. 

“That will be soon, dear sister,” said Edith, folding Anne 
in her arms and crying with excessive happiness. “ You may 
have two sisters soon, Anne — Star, I am sure, will be your 
other sister.” Star blushed, and therefore told her tale. 

The family stood on the porch that evening, and listened 
to the receding sound of the rattling wheels and squeaking 
springs of the rig, as John drove away with his precious load. 
“God bless them,” said the good old father; and Anne cried 
when the last hoof beat came down the shadowy roadway. 
In silence they sat in darkness till they heard the clanking 


252 


EDITH AND JOHN 


hoofs returning. The mother went in and lighted the lamp; 
the father went in, the sister went in, the two brothers went 
in ; and they all knelt down in family worship. 

As the curtain of the passing night drew thickly over the 
mountains, and the lights in the corridor of the Summit House 
became dim, and their room dark, Edith knelt down by her 
bed and offered up her prayers to the Good Lord, who had 
brought her safely through her troubles; and Star, kneeling 
by her side, said, “Amen.” 

A few days thereafter, after Edith had written her parents 
of the happy culmination of her fishing trip, the following 
message was received by her from them : ‘ ‘ Congratulations. ’ ’ 

So endeth the story of Edith and John. 


■t. 


i 





f 




« 


I 


\ < 

< ' • 

t " ' 1 


,1 






may 2/ 1912 





